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The  Squire 


THE  LIBRARY 

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LOS  ANGELES 


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THE  GEORGE  E.  LASK  COLLEC 


THE  SQUIRE 


Un  ©riainal  clomet)^  in  Ubree  Hcts 


BY 


ARTHUR  W.  PINERO 


Copyright,  1905,  nv   Samuel   French 


New  York 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PITRI.rSHER 

26  WEST  221)  STREET 


London 
SAMUEL   FRENCH,   Ltd. 

26  Southampton  Street,' 
STRAND,  LONDON. 


THE  SQUIRE. 


Produced  at  the  St.  James's  TJieatre,  London,  on  Decern 
her  29th,  1881,  with  the  folloioing  cast : — 

Cbaracters* 

The  Rev.  Paul  Dormer Mr.  Hare 

Lieutenant  Thorndyke Mr.  Kendal 

Gilbert  Hythe Mr.  T.  N.  Wenman 

GUNXION Mr.  Macintosh 

IzoD  Haggerston Mr.  T.  W.  Robertson 

Fell Mr.  Martin 

ROBJOHNS,  Junior Mr.  Brandon  Thomas 

The  Representative  of  the  "  Pagley 

Mercury  " Mr.  Steyne 

Kate  Verity Mrs.  Kendal 

Christiana  Haggerston Miss  Ada  Murray 

Felicity  Gunnion Miss  Stella  Brereton 

Villagers. 


PR 
5-182 

Sin 

THE    SQUIRE. 


Scene: — About    two    miles    from    Market-Sinfield. 
Harvest  Time.      The  Present  Day. 


ACT    I. 

"The  Secret."     The   Court  at  "Prior's  Mesne.'' 
Below  the  archway.     Noon. 


"The   Siren." 
archway.     Night. 


ACT    II. 

The   Squire's   room. 


Above   the 


ACT    III. 

"  Good-bye."     The  same   place.      The  next   day. 
Sunset. 

(1.)  Built  house  piece  running  from  r.  to  l.  Old 
oak  door  up  steps  l.  Old  ivy  growing  up 
house  in  corner  above  steps.  Old  arch- 
way c.  with  two  built  out  bay  windows  over 
it,  supported  by  a  massive  oak  beam  which 
runs  from  r.  to  l.  Small  oak  beams  run- 
ning across  under  archway.  Tiled  roof  with 
oak  gable. 

(2.)  Dairy  piece  about  eight  feet  high  with  red 
tiled  roof  which  meets  side  house  piece. 

Back  cloth.     Landscape.      Hay  ricks,  etc. 

Set  piece  with  hedge  and  stile. 

Bank. 


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THE  SQUIRE 


ACT    I. 

THE   SECRET. 


Scene: — The  exterior  of  a  decayed,  weatherh eaten, 
Elizabethan  mansion,  overgrown  ivith  ivy  and 
autumn-tinted  creeper.  On  the  r.  the  loiver  part 
of  a  toiver,  square  or  circular.  Facing  the  audi- 
ence, about  five  feet  from  the  ground,  a  door 
opening  into  the  toiver,  the  entrance  proper  to  the 
house.  This  door  leads  out  on  to  a  stone  terrace, 
which  is  run  off  the  stage  \i.,  and  which  termi- 
nates R.  c.  in  a  few  broken  and  irregular  steps. 
At  the  foot  of  the  steps,  c.  of  stage,  an  old  halting 
stone.  Below  the  terrace,  n.,  a  wooden  garden 
seat.  On  the  R.  of  garden  seat,  a  small  rustic 
table,  on  which  is  a  tvorlc-basket  with  materials 
for  needlework.  At  back,  up  stage,  the  house 
runs  from  R.  to  l.  In  R.  corner,  a  piece  of  broken 
stonework,  almost  concealed  by  ivy,  forming  a 
footing  to  gain  a  broad  beam  which  runs  about 
twelve  feet  from  the  ground,  from  r.  to  l.  Above 
the  beam,  tivo  substantial  casement  windows,  r.  c. 
and  L.  Below  the  beams,  r.  c,  a  window,  and  on 
the  L.  a  large  archway,  with  broken  iron  gates 
leaning  against  its  walls.  Through  the  archway, 
a  bright  view  of  farm  lands,  ricks,  etc.,  etc.  On 
the  L.  continuing  the  house  wall,  down  the  stage, 
an  outhouse,  suggesting  a  kitchen  dairy;  outside 
this,  up  stage  l.,  a  wooden  bench  with  milk-pails, 

5 


6  THE  SQUIRE. 

etc.  Down  stage,  a  door  teading  into  outhouse. 
Above  door,  L.  c,  rough  deal  table  and  two  chairs. 
Tlie  ground  is  flagged  with  broken  stones,  ivhich 
are  much  overgrown  ivith  moss  and  weed. 

(Bright  Music  at  opening.     Lights  full  up.     At  rise 

of   curtain,   the   bell  rings  in   a   discordant   way. 

CiiKiSTiAXA  Haggerston  discovered  l.,  scrubbing 

a  small  ivooden  pail.     Christiana  is  a  handsome 

dark  woman  with  the  tinge  of  the  gipsy  upon  hei 

face.) 

Chris.  What  is  it?  {puts  pail  on  form  l.,  goes 
up  into  archway  and  looks  off  R.) 

IzoD.     (offstage)   Hullo!     Christie! 

Chris.  ^\niy,  come  in,  Izod,  darling — what's 
wrong  ? 

IzoD.  (r.  off  stage)  It's  the  dog,  he  can't  abide 
mo. 

(Chris,  hurls  Iter  scrubbing  brush  at  the  dog.) 

Chris,  (savagely)  Lie  down,  you  beast,  (softly) 
Come  along,  Izod,  dear!  (comes  down) 

(IzoD  backs  on  as  though  afraid  of  dog.  Izod  Hag- 
gerston enters  through  archway.  He  is  a  little 
thin,  dark  fellow — half  cad,  half  gipsy — tvith  a 
brown  face,  and  crisp,  curly,  black  hair.     He  is 

dirty  and  disreputable,  an  idler  and  a  sneak.) 

(l.  c. — putting  her  arms  round  his  neck)  I  haven't 
seen  you  for  nearly  a  week,  brother  dear. 

Izod.  (c,  shaking  himself  clear)  All  right,  don't 
maul,  Christie.  If  the  Squire  was  commonly  civil 
to  a  poor  chap,  you'd  see  a  little  more  of  me.  I 
want  something  to  drink,  and  some  coin  for  tobacco. 

Chris,  (standing  by  him  and  stroking  his  head) 
Xo  luck,  dearie? 

Izod.  Luck !  No !  The  farmers  won't  look  at 
a  fellow  with  a  dark  skin — curse  'em ! 


THE  SQUIRE.  ^ 

Chris.     The  brutes,   (fondling  him) 
IzoD.     Well,  don't  maul,  Christie.     I'm  dead  dry. 
Chris,     {lool-ing  round)  ^Yait  here  and  I'll  bring 
you  a  drink,   {she  crosses  to  l.) 

(She  goes  into  outhouse  l.  Izod  looks  round  to- 
wards door  R.  c.  with  an  evil  expression.  lie  then 
deliherntely  takes  off  the  coloured  handkerchief 
which  he  wears  round  his  neck,  unfolds  it  and 
produces  a  hunch  of  bright  keys.) 

Izod.  (jingling  the  keys  and  looking  towards 
door  R.  c.)  Keys!  I  wonder  if  keys  are  worth  any- 
thing, (slips  keys  into  side  pocket,  and  crosses  to 
door  L.,   meeting   Chris.,   who    comes   out   with   a 

mug  of  milk.  Snatching  it  from  her)  There's  a 
dear!  (he  puts  mug  to  lips  and  takes  it  away  quickly, 

wiping  his  mouth  with  the  hack  of  his  hand)  Pah ! 
You're  a  good  sort  of  a  sister — milk ! 

Chris.  I  dursn't  tap  the  ale  without  Squirc^s 
orders — the  new  barrel  isn't  to  be  touched  till  the 
Harvest  Feast.     Down  with  it — it's  meat  and  drink. 

Izod.  Ugh  !  Here  goes !  Confound  the  Squire ! 
(he  drinks,  gives  hack  mug  and  holds  out  hand  for 
coin.     She  puts  mug  on  tahle)   Coin  for  tobacco. 

Chris.  Don't  spend  your  money  on  tobacco,  darl- 
ing.    Have  a  meal. 

Izod.  I  had  a  meal  yesterday,  mid-day.  (proudly) 
I  earned  two  shillings  in  half-an-hour. 

Chris.     Good  gracious !     IIov/  ? 

Izod,  (walking  r.  and  hack)  I  and  old  Mrs, 
Thorndyke's  gardener  carried  a  sick  woman  on  a  lit- 
ter from  Pagley  Railway  Station  to  the  White  Lion, 
at  Market-Sinfield.  Oh,  she  was  a  weight!  (sits  R. 
of  L.  tahle) 

Chris.  Carried  a  sick  woman  on  a  litter?  (leans 
against  tahle  l.  of  it) 

Izod.  The  railway  journey  had  upset  her,  and  the 
doctor  said  she  was  too  ill  to  be  shook  up  on  the 
roadway. 


S  THE  SQUIRE, 

Chris.     A  common  woman  or  a  lady? 

IzoD.  A  lady — jolly  dark,  jolly  pretty,  and 
jolly  ill. 

Chris,  (curiously)  What  does  she  do  at  an  inn  in 
Market-Sinfield  ?   (sits  on  table) 

IzoD.  She  gave  out  that  she  was  a  stranger  in 
these  parts,  and  wanted  to  see  a  clergyman.  She 
was  a  weight ! 

Chris.     Well  ? 

IzoD.     So  I  fetched  Mr.  Dormer,  the  mad  parson. 

Chris.     Did  he  go  to  her? 

IzoD.    I  dunno.     Coin  for  tobacco!  (rises) 

(IzoD  goes  up  to  arch.) 

Chris.  I've  only  got  a  little  money.  I'll  fetch 
it,  dear,  (she  takes  up  mug  reflect ively)  A  pretty  lady 
in  Market-Sinfield — very  dark,  very  ill,  and  among 
strangers,  (sighing)  How  unlucky  all  dark  women 
seem  to  be ! 

IzoD.     Coin  for  tobacco!  (rapping  table) 

Chris,     (starting)  Oh,  yes,  dear. 

(She  goes  off  l.     Izod  again  produces  the  keys  and 
jingles  them  on  the  table.) 

IzOD.  (glancing  in  the  direction  of  door  R.  c.) 
Keys !  and  a  name  cut  on  the  key-ring,  (shaking 
them)  What  sort  of  a  tune  do  they  play,  I  wonder? 
(rises) 

(Chris,  re-enters  carrying  a  small  purse.  She  comes 
L.  of  table,  and  empties  the  contents  into  his  R. 
hand.) 

(counting  money)  Five  bob. 

Chris.     Leave  me  a  little. 

Izod.  (pocketing  money)  There's  a  shilling  for 
you.  I'll  pay  you  what  1  owe  you  when  you  coax 
the  squire  to  employ  me  regularly  on  the  farm,  (goes 

to   R.    C.) 

Chris,     (c.)  That'll  never  be — I've  tried. 


THE  SQUIRE.  9 

IzoD.  Have  you  ?  (showing  bunch  of  keys)  Look 
there.  Don't  snatch ;  read  the  name  on  the  ring. 
(showing  the  ring  only) 

(She  examines  the  ring,  which  he  still  holds  fast.) 
Chris.    The  name  of  the  man  who  is  always  hang- 
ing about  this  place,   (quickly)   Where  did  you  get 
this? 

(Gilbert  Hythe  appears  in  the  archway  from  L. ; 

as  lie  enters,  they  separate,  Izod  to  R.^  she  to  l.) 

Gil.  Is  the  Squire  indoors,  Cliristie?  (lie  comes 
down  c.  He  is  a  fine,  strapping  fellow,  about  thirty, 
dressed  roughly  in  an  old  velvet  jacket,  cords  and 
gaiters.     He  carries  a  light  double-barrelled  gun) 

Chris,     (l.)  Yes,  Mr.  Hythe. 

Gil.  (c.^  seeing  Izod)  What  the  devil  are  you 
doing  here? 

Izod.     (r.)   Nothing. 

Gil.  That's  what  you're  always  doing  everywhere. 
Get  out ! 

Izod.  (defiantly)  I  cleaned  the  windows  here  last 
Tuesday,  and  I  haven't  been  paid  for  it. 

Gil.     That's  a  lie.   (goes  towards  him) 

Izod.  Well,  then,  I  have  been  paid  for  it,  and  I've 
come  to  visit  my  dear  sister. 

Gil.  Look  here,  Izod,  I've  had  half  an  hour  at 
the  ricks  this  morning,  ferreting  the  rats.  A  man 
shoots  rats  because  they  are  vermin — it's  lucky  for 
you,  and  idlers  like  you,  that  you're  on  two  legs 
instead  of  four. 

Chris.  For  shame,  Gilbert  Hythe ;  I'm  his  sister. 
(goes  to  c.) 

Gil.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Christie ;  I  ought  to  have 
held  my  tongue  before  you.  Look  here,  Izod,  my 
lad,  you  know  that  the  Squire  can't  bear  the  sight 
of  loafers  and  ne'er-do-wells.  Why  don't  you  go 
where  you're  welcome?   (goes  up  stage  to  archway) 

Izod.  Where's  that?  I've  mislaid  the  address. 
(Christie  goes  to  l.) 


10  THE  SQUIRE. 

Gil.  (in  archway)  Cliristie,  tell  the  Squire  that 
I  liave  broijght  two  men  with  me — young  Kobjohns, 
the  fiddler's  son,  and  a  newspaper  chap. 

Chris,  (at  l.  c.)  Very  well.  And  your  dinner 
is  waiting  for  you,  Mr.  Hythe,  (pointing  to  door  l.) 
and  has  been  this  half-hour. 

Gil,  My  dinner — oh,  yes.  Izod,  old  fellow,  eat 
my  dinner  for  me ;  I'm  busv. 

Chris,     (gratefully)  Thank  you,  Mr.  Hythe. 

Gil.  And  then  pull  yourself  together,  man,  and 
work. 

(Gil.  goes  off  up  stage,  through  archway.  Chris. 
comes  quickly  to  Izod,  who  gets  to  c.  Christie 
goes  up  stage  and  looks  after  Gilbert.) 

Chris.  Tell  me,  dear,  dear,  dear,  where  did  you 
find  that  key  ring? 

(Izod  looks  round  cautiously.) 

Izod  (pointing  to  windows  al)ove  archway)  I 
cleaned  those  windows  here  last  week,  and  badly  paid 
I  was  for  the  job. 

Chris.     Well  ? 

Izod.  On  that  beam  which  is  broad  enough  for  a 
man  to  crawl  along,  I  found  this  bunch  of  keys. 

Chris.     What  does  that  mean? 

Izod.  Look  here,  (he  goes  up  stage  R.  c,  to  the 
stonework  which  runs  up  to  the  coping)  Do  you  see 
this?  An  easy  flight  of  steps  up  to  that  window 
sill. 

Chris.     What  of  it? 

Izod.  (pointing  to  the  ivy  running  up  the  wall) 
The  ivy  is  old  and  strong  enough — if  you  clutch  it, 
no  fear  of  falling. 

Chris,     Wliat  of  it? 

Izod.  (removing  some  of  the  leaves  from  the 
stonework)  Look  there — ^footprints — where  a  boot 
has  kicked  away  the  old  crust  from  the  stones. 

Chris,     (m  an  earnest  whisper)  What  of  it? 


THE  SQUIRE.  H 

IzoD.  (pointing  above)  More  footprints  up  there, 
stopping  at  that  window,  and  under  the  window  this 
key-ring,  witiiout  a  speck  of  rust  on  it. 

Chris,  (earnestly)  Tell  me  what  you  think — tell 
me  what  you  mean  ! 

IzOD.  (comes  down  to  her)  I  mean  that  that  is 
the  Squire's  room,  and  that  this  hunch  of  keys  be- 
longs to  the  man  who  seems  more  anxious  than  any- 
one in  the  parish  to  be  in  the  Squire's  company.  I 
mean  that  if  the  Squire  wants  to  entertain  a  visitor 
unbeknown  to  you  or  anybody  about  the  place,  that 
is  the  way  in. 

Chris.  Climb  to  a  window,  when  there's  a  door 
there  ? 

IzoD.  (pointing  to  door  R.  c.)  Who  sleeps  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  outside  the  Squire's  room? 

Chris.  I  do.  (Izod  gives  a  short  whistle)  But 
the  dog,  Izod, — nobody  that  the  dog  doesn't  love, 
dares  try  to  pass  the  gateway — the  dog! 

Izod.  Who  gave  the  dog  to  the  Squire,  a  twelve- 
month back? 

Chris.     Ah ! 

Izod.  (holding  out  hunch  of  keys)  Why,  the  man 
whose  name  is  cut  on  that  key-ring!  (Chris. 
snatches  the  keys  from  him,  and  puts  tlirm  behind 
her  back.  Izod  seizes  her  hand)  Give  them  up  to 
me,  you  devil ! 

Chris,  (firmly)  I'll  call  Gilbert  Hythe,  if  you 
touch  me,  darling,  (he  releases  her)  Listen,  Izod; 
I've  been  here,  on  this  bit  o'  land,  resting  under 
this  old  roof,  and  working  in  this  old  yard,  since  I 
was  a  mite — so  high.  I've  been  here  in  times  of 
merrymaking  and  times  of  mourning,  and  I've  seen 
the  grass  grow  over  all  the  Veritys  but  one — the 
Squire  who  gives  me  the  same  living  that  goes  to  the 
best  table,  and  as  soft  a  pillow  as  lies  on  the  best 
bed.  No,  I'll  keep  the  keys,  Izod  dear;  you  go  and 
swallow  Gilbert  Hythe's  dinner. 

Izod.      (slouches  over  to   door  l.   with  a  scowl) 


12  THE  SQUIRE. 

You  don't  care  if  the  Squire  does  snub  your  poor 
brother.  Faugh !  you've  nothing  of  tlie  gipsy  but 
the  skin.      (He  goes  out  into  outhouse,  door  l.) 

Chris,  (looks  at  the  keys,  and  slips  them  into 
her  pocket)  A  bunch  of  his  keys;  they  are  safer  in 
my  pocket  than  in  Izod's — poor  Izod  is  so  impul- 
sive, (she  crosses  to  r.  c,  goes  up  the  steps  and  calls 
at  door.  Calling)  Squire!  Squire!  Here's  Gilbert 
Hythe  with  two  men.  Don't  let  'em  bring  their 
boots  indoors. 

(Izod  appears  at  door  l.) 

Izod.     (savagely)  Christiana ! 
Chris,     (turning)  Hush!  (coming  down  steps) 
Izod.     How  long  am  I  to  be  treated  like  this? 
Chris,     (going  towards  l.)   What's  wrong,  dear? 
Izod.     What's  wrong !     Why,  it's  only  cold  meat ! 
Chris.     Go  in,  Izod  !     Here's  the  Squire  !  go  in  ! 

(She  pushes  Izod  in  l.) 

(Kate  Verity  comes  out  of  house  r.  c.  and  doivn 
the  steps;  she  is  a  pretty  woman,  bright,  fresh,  and 
cheery;  she  carries  a  small  key-basket  containing 
keys,  and  an  account  book  and  pencil,  which  she 
places  on  r.  table  as  she  turns  from  Gilbert; 
she  throws  the  shawl  over  the  m.ounting  stone  as 
Gilbert  Hythe  appears  in  the  archway,  followed 
by  RoBJOHNS,  Junior,  a  mild-looking ,  fair  youth, 
and  a  shabby  person  in  black  toith  a  red  face.) 

I'm  close  at  hand  if  you  want  me,  Squire.     Here's 

Gilbert!    (she  goes  into  outhouse  l.) 
Kate.     What  are  you  doing  with  the  gun,  (Jil- 

bert? 

Gil.     I've  been  })utting  the   ferrets  at  the  ricks. 

(holding  out  hand  eagerly)  Good  afternoon.  Squire. 
Kate,     (shakes  her  head  at  Gil.)  What  a  mania 

you  have  for  shaking  hands,  Gi]l)ort. 

Gil.     (withdrawing  his  hand)  1  beg  your  pardon. 
Kate.     Who  are  those  men? 


THE  SQUIRE.  13 

Gil.  Tho  son  of  old  Robjohns,  the  fiddler,  and  a 
reporting  man  on  the  "  Mercury." 

Kate.  Well^Master  Robjohns,  how's  your  father? 
{sUs  E.) 

(Rob.  comes  down  l.  c.  nervously.) 

Rob.  {with  a  dialect)  Father's  respects,  and  he's 
ill  a-bed  with  rheumatics,  and  he  hopes  it'll  make 
no  difference. 

Kate.  Who's  to  play  the  fiddle  to-morrow  night 
for  the  harvest  folks? 

Rob.  Father  wants  me  to  take  his  place.  I'm 
not  nearly  such  a  good  fiddler  as  father  is,  and  he 
hopes  it'll  make  no  difference. 

Kate.  Your  father  has  played  at  every  harvest 
feast  here  for  the  last  five  and  twenty  years — is  he 
very  ill? 

Rob.  Father's  respects,  and  he's  as  had  as  he  can 
well  be,  and  he  hopes  it'll  make  no  difference. 

Kate.  Good  gracious !  Gilbert,  have  you  sent 
the  doctor? 

Gil.  The  doctor's  busy  with  an  invalid  at  the 
White  Lion  at  Market-Sinfield — a  stranger. 

Kate.  No  stranger  has  a  right  to  all  the  doctor. 
(rises  and  stands  by  table  r.  making  notes  in  hook) 
All  right,  Master  Robjohns,  you  shall  play  the  fiddle 
to-morrow  night. 

Rob.     Thank'ee,  Squire. 

Kate.     Christie ! 

Gil.     Christie ! 

Chris,      (from  within  l.)  Yes! 

Kate.     Give  Master  Robjohns  something  to  drink. 

Chris,     (appearing  at  the  door)  Yes,  Squire. 
(She  retires.) 

Kate.  And  give  my  love — the  Squire's  love — to 
father,  and  tell  him  to  keep  a  good  heart. 

Rob.     Thank'ee,   Squire.     But  father  sends   his 
respects,  and  thinks  he's  a  dead  'un,  and  hopes  it'll 
make  no  difference. 
(Rob.  goes  over  to  L.,  meeting  Chris.,  who  given 


14  THE  SQUIRE. 

him  a  mug  of  milk  and  retires.    Eob.  sits  l.  and 

drinks  on  form.) 

Kate,  (sits  on  stone  c,  sharply  to  the  Shabby 
Person,  who  is  up  stage)  Now  then,  sir,  what  do 
you  want? 

S.  P.  {who  is  evidently  addicted  to  drink)  I — oh 
yes.  (^0  Gil.)  Is  this  Miss  Verity? 

Gil.  That  is  the  Squire,  {behind  Squire  a  little 
to  her  L.) 

S.  P.     The  Squire! 

Gil.  The  Squire  in  these  parts  is  the  person  who 
owns  Verity's  lands.  Miss  Verity  chooses  to  be  re- 
garded as  the  Squire,  and  to  be  called  so.  {passes 
behind  Squire) 

S.  P.  Quite  so.  {he  conies  down  l.  c.)  Hem! 
The  editor  of  the  "  Pagley  Mercury  and  Market- 
Sinfield  Herald,"  with  which  are  incorporated  the 
"  Inn-Keeper's  Manual  "  and  the  "  Agriculturists' 
Guide,"  presents  his  compliments  to  Squire  Verity, 
and,  regarding  the  ever-spreading  influence  of  mod- 
ern journalism,  requests  that  I,  its  representative, 
may  be  permitted  to  be  present  at  Squire  Verity's 
Harvest  Feast  to-morrow  evening.  (Kate  laughs 
heartily.  The  S.  P.  looks  round  at  Kob.  to  ascertain 
the  cause  of  her  amnsemcnt)  Journalism  is  as  a  tree, 
its  root  is  embedded  in  our  constitution,  while  its 
branches 

Kate.     All  right;  you  can  come. 

S.  P.     {raising  his  arms)  While  its  branches 

Kate.     All  right ;  vou  can  come. 

S.  P.     {hurt)  Thank  you. 

Kate.    Would  you — {noticing  his  face)  Oh  dear 

S.  P.     I  beg  pardon. 

Kate.  Would  3'ou — would  you  like  anything  to 
drink? 

S.  P.     {quickly)  Yes. 

Kate.     Christie ! 

Gil.     Christie! 

Kate,     {sorrowfully)  Are  you  quite  sure? 


THE  SQUIRE.  15 

S.  p.     Positive,  {sits  R.  of  table) 

(Chris,  appears  at  door  l.) 

Kate,     Christie!  (emphatically)  Milk! 

S.  P.     Er — I  should  prefer  ale.   (rises  quickly) 

Chris.  The  old  cask  has  run  out,  and  the  new- 
one  isn't  to  be  tapped  till  to-morrow. 

S.  P.     I  don't  think  I  really  need  anything.     I'm 
very  moderate.     Thank  you.     Good  day ! 
(EoBJOHNs  puts  mug  on  form,  rises  and  goes  up 

stage  wiping  mouth.) 

(Shabby    Person    hurries    off    through    archway; 

Kate  laughs.) 

Kate.     Good-bye,  Master  Rob  Johns  ! 

Rob.  (turning  round,  up  stage)  Father's  respects, 
and  he  has  always  heretofore  cut  up  the  ducks  at 
the  harvest  feast. 

Kate.    Well? 

Rob.  Father's  mortally  fond  of  duck,  but  he 
always  cut  'em  up  fairly  and  friendly, 

Kate.     Yes  ? 

Rob.  My  best  respects  to  you.  Squire,  and  as  I 
come,  in  place  of  father,  I  hope  you'll  make  no 
difference.     Good  day  to  ye.  Squire. 

(He  goes  off  through  archway.     Kate  rises,  goes      '  ~       j ;  A 
up  c,  and  down  l.  c.)  — r      ' 

Kate.  Thank  you,  Gilbert,  for  thinking  so  much 
of  to-morrow. 

Gil,  (looking  at  her  earnestly)  Don't  name  it, 
Squire. 

Kate.  (awkwardly)  The  summer's  over — the 
winds  are  getting  quite  cold — good  afternoon,  Gil- 
bert. 

(Kate  takes  shawl  off  stone  and  goes  towards  steps, 
where  Gilbert  intercepts  her.) 

Gil,     Squire ! 


16  THE  SQUIRE. 

Kate.    Yes  ? 

Gil.     Will  you  listen  to  me? 

Kate.     (l.  c. )  Business? 

Gil.     (r.  of  her)  The  business  of  my  life. 

Kate.     Oh,  Gilbert!     Again?   (sits) 

Gil.  (puts  gnn  doivn  r.  of  archway)  Squire — 
Squire  Kate,  I — I  can't  take  "  no  "  for  an  answer. 

Kate.     Are  you  a  strong  man  or  a  weak  one? 

Gil.  Strong  enough  to  keep  from  drink  and 
gambling,  when  you  make  me  mad;  weak  enough  to 
crawl  about  this  place  for  the  sake  of  a  look  from 
you.  Strong  enough  to  love  you  with  all  my  soul; 
weak  enough  not  to  hate  you  for  wrecking  my  life. 

Kate.  Don't  talk  fiddle-de-dee  nonsense  about 
your  life  being  wrecked.  Gilbert,  we  were  children 
together,  we  were  lad  and  lass  together,  and  perhaps, 
if  we  both  live,  we  may  be  old  people  together — but 
we  mustn't  be  man  and  woman  together;  it  doesn't 
answer.  Now,  tell  me,  what  are  you  supposed  to  be 
on  my  land  ? 

Gil.  Folks  call  me  the  bailiff,  but  I'm  more  of  a 
handyman.  I  work  for  Squire  Kate,  my  dear  mas- 
ter— and  I  love  Squire  Kate,  my  dear  mistress. 

Kate.  Then  take  a  word  of  advice — cut  yourself 
adrift  from  Squire  Kate's  apron  strings.  (Gilbert 
turns  away)  When  my  father,  John  Verity,  died, 
and  loft  his  girl  alone  in  the  world,  you  helped  me 
out  of  debt  and  dillieulty ;  but  all  the  skill  on  earth 
can  never  squeeze  more  than  bread  and  butter  out 
of  this  dear  broken-down  old  place,  (she  rises)  So 
go  away  where  there's  a  world  for  you,  a  world  to 
work  in  and  a  world  to  live  in.  (she  holds  out  her 
hand  to  him)  Thank  yo\i  for  the  past.     Good-bye. 

Gil.  (k.  c.  faUeringly)  If  I  come  back — rich — 
in  a  year,  would  there  be  any  chance  for  me? 

Kate,     (in  a  whisper)  No.  (crosses  to  R.) 

Gil.     Good-bye,  dear  Squire  Kate,   (goes  to  her) 

Kate.  Good-bye,  old  friend  Gilbert,  (they  shaJce 
hands) 


THE  SQUIRE.  l7 

(She  sits  on  garden  seat,  thoughtfully.  Takes  small 
purse  from  her  pocket,  looks  at  wedding  ring  in 
it,  and  kisses  it.  Gil.  goes  quickly  up  stage,  then 
turns  and  looks  at  her;  after  a  moment  he  comes 
softly,  unperceived,  to  c) 

Gil.     (quietly)  Kate. 

Kate,     (rising  with  a  start)  Eric! 

Gil.     Oh! 

Kate,  (seeing  Gil.)  You! — why  have  you  come 
back?   (reseating  herself) 

Gil.  (bitterly)  Eric!  Eric!  The  young  soldier 
who  is  privileged  to  wind  the  apron  strings  round 
his  neck — who  lolls  away  his  leisure  here  with  his 
feet  higher  than  his  head,  and  a  cigar  between  his 
teeth. 

Kate,  (confused)  Don't  heed  me — I  don't  know 
what  I  have  said ! 

Gil.  Said !  Called  me  by  another  man's  name. 
Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  trap  you. 

Kate,      (rising)    Trap!    (takes  up  key-basket) 

Gil.  I  beg  your  pardon,  (meekly)  but  it  was 
concerning  this  very  Mr.  Thorndyke  that  I  returned 
to  speak  to  you. 

Kate.     I  won't  hear  you.     I'm  going  indoors. 

Gil.  (calmly)  I  won't  let  you.  (standing  before 
her) 

Kate.     You  know  what  you  are  here? 

Gil.     Is  it  mistress  and  servant? 

Kate.  I  was  your  mistress — you  are  my  dis- 
charged servant. 

Gil.  Humbly,  then,  as  an  old  servant,  I  ask  you 
to  consider  what  this  Mr.  Thorndyke  really  is. 

Kate,     (coldly)  A  gentleman  and  a  soldier. 

Gil.  Not  a  gentleman,  because  he's  a  soldier — 
what  does  he  do  here?  (pause) 

Kate.     We  are  friends. 

Gil.  They  don't  say  that  in  the  parlour  of  the 
White  Lion. 


18  THE  SQUIRE. 


Kate.     Oh!  Do  they  dare ? 

Gil.     Oh,  yes,  they  dare. 

Kate.  The  idlers  in  a  pot-house  malign  the 
woman  out  of  whose  land  they  get  the  very  crust 
they  eat.  {covers  her  face  with  her  hands  and  sits 
on  garden  seat)  How  hard!    How  cruel! 

Gil.  (earnestly)  I  have  stopped  their  tongues 
when  I  have  been  by.     I  have  always  said 

Kate.  (raising  her  head)  You.  Mr.  Hythe? 
Thank  you.  In  the  future  don't  meddle  with  their 
legitimate  pleasures,  (laughing  with  pain)  They've 
so  little  to  amuse  them.  How  selfish  I  am!  (the 
hell  rings)  Who  is  that? 
(The  Rev.  Paul  Dormer  appears  in  the  archway 

from  L.     He  is  a  dark-hrowed  man,  about  forty, 

hut  with  white  hair;  he  is  attired  as  a  clergyman, 

hut  his  dress  is  rusty,  shabby,  and  slovenly;  he 

carries  a  heavy  sticJc.) 

Gil.     (surprised)  Parson  Dormer!  (going  up  C.) 

Kate,  (rising)  Mr.  Dormer!  (Dor.  comes  down, 
meeting  Gil.) 

Dormer.  (to  Gil.  roughly)  You're  Gilbert 
Hythe,  I  think. 

Gil.     You  think  aright — I  am. 

Dormer.     Can  you  carry  a  basket? 

Gil.     Where  to? 

Dormer.     To  the  White  Lion ! 

Gil.    What  for? 

Dormer.     For  the  sake  of  a  sick  woman. 

Gil.    I  can  carry  a  basket  to  the  White  Lion. 

Dormer,     (gruffly)  Thank  you. 

Gil.  (looking  at  Dor.)  For  the  sake  of  a  sick 
woman? 

Dormer,     (turning  away)  Ah! 

Gil.  (to  Kate.)  Call  me  when  I'm  wanted, 
Squire.     I'm  going  to  say  good-bye  to  the  dog. 

(Goes  off  through  archway  to  r.     Dor.  sits  n.  of 

table.) 


THE  SQUIRE.  19 

Kate.  (l.  c.)  If  your  business  is  with  Gilbert 
Hythe,  you  can  dispense  with  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  Mr.  Dormer,   (about  to  go) 

Dormer.     No,  I  want  you,  too. 

Kate.  Really,  parson — you  haven't  shown  face 
at  The  Priors  since  father  died,  two  years  ago;  you 
don't  say  "  IIow  do  you  do  ? "  to  John  Verity's 
daughter;  and  you  don't  say  "Good-day"  to  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  Squire  that  your  parish  can 
boast.  The  one  omission  is  rude — the  other  im- 
politic. 

Dormer.  I  didn't  like  your  father — you  resemble 
him  in  face  and  manner. 

Kate.  My  father  didn't  like  you.  (she  holds  out 
her  hand,  going  to  him)  How  are  you,  parson? 
What  can  I  do  for  you? 

(He  looks  at  her,  takes  her  hand  sulkily.) 

Dormer.  Fill  a  basket  with  food,  fit  for  an  in- 
valid, and  send  your  man  with  it  to  Market-Sinfield. 

Kate,  (calling)  Christie!  (to  Dor.)  A  woman 
manages  the  White  Lion,  I  think. 

Dormer.     A  woman  mismanages  the  White  Lion. 

Kate,  (clapping  her  hands)  Christie!  (to  Dor.) 
Shan't  we  hurt  the  landlady's  feelings  by  sending 
food  there?  (goes  to  R.  table) 

Dormer,  (with  enjoyment)  We  shall,  (irritably) 
Now  then,  you — what's-your-name  ? — why  don't  you 
come  when  you're  called? 

(Christiana  appears  at  door,  wiping  her  hands  on 

her  apron.) 

Chris,  (angrily)  Who's  calling  me  "  what's-your- 
name"?  (seeing  Dor.)  Why,  parson!  (curtseys  at 
door) 

Dormer,  (rises — shaking  his  stick  at  her)  The 
gipsy  girl,  who  won't  sing  the  hymns  on  Sunday. 

Kate.    You  start  them  in  such  a  high  key,  parson. 

Chris,     (curtseying)   Yes,  Squire,  that  he  does. 


20  THE  SQUIRE. 

Dormer,  (raising  his  finger)  The  higher  the 
key.  Madam,  the  nearer  Heaven !  (passes  behind 
table  io  l.  of  it.     Chris,  laughs) 

Kate.  Hush,  Christie,  come  here.  (Chris,  comes 
to  Kate  c.)  Fill  a  basket  with  everything  that  is 
tempting,  fit  for  an  invalid,  (gives  key  to  Christie) 

Chris,  (to  Dor.)  For  the  lady  at  the  White  Lion, 
parson  ? 

Dormer,  (sitting  l.  of  table)  I'm  not  here  to 
feed  woman's  curiosity. 

Kate.     Kun  along,  Christie. 

(Christie  rvns  up  the  steps  into  the  house  R.  c. 
Kate  crosses  softly  over  to  Dor.  and  stands  by 
table,  R.  of  it.) 

(quietly)  It  is  not  often,  Parson  Dormer,  that  you 
stoop  to  ask  help  of  a  woman,  by  all  accounts. 

Dormer,     (icithout  looking  at  her)  No! 

Kate.  Don't  think  me  rude — but  in  Market- 
Sinfield  the  folks  call  you  the  Woman-Hater. 

Dormer.  What  else  do  they  call  me  in  Market- 
Sinfield? 

Kate.     I — I — don't  know. 

Dormer.    Tliat's  not  true. 

Kate.     That's  not  polite. 

Dormer.  What  else  do  they  call  me  in  Market- 
Sinfield  ? 

Kate,     (firing  up)  They  call  you  the  Mad  Parson ! 

Dormer.  Ah !  The  Woman-Hater  and  the  Mad 
Parson — contradictory  terms,  (moves  stool  to  back 
of  table  and  sits) 

Kate.  You're  not  mad,  Mr.  Dormer — ^but  you  are 
rude. 

Dormer.  How  long  will  that  woman  take  to  pack 
the  basket? 

Kate.     Are  you  a  woman-hater,  Mr.  Dormer? 

Dormer.    I'm  not  a  woman-lover. 

Kate,     (leaning  her  arms  on  table,  and  looking  at 


THE  SQUIRE.  21 

Dor.  timidly)  Have  you  always  been  a  woman-hater, 
parson  ? 

(Dormer  looJcs  up  quicTcly  and  turns  away.) 

Dormer.  (roiigJily)  How  long  will  that  woman 
take  to  pack  that  basket? 

Kate.  Not  very  long,  (the  Parson's  arm  is  on 
the  table;  Kate  places  her  hand  on  his  sleeve — very 
gently)  You — you — haven't  always  been  a  woman- 
hater,  parson — have  you? 

Dormer,     (drooping  his  head)  No. 

Kate.     Thank  you,  parson.     Was  she — pretty? 

Dormer.     I  suppose  she  was. 

Kate.  She  must  have  been.  Was  she — good  ? 
(no  answer)  We've  never  had  a  chat  together,  till 
now.     Was  she  good? 

Dormer.     No. 

Kate,  (in  a  whisper)  Oh!  (rises  and  lays  her 
hand  on  Dor.^s  shoulder,  gently)  I'm  so  sorry.  And 
now  they  tell  me  you've  no  woman-folk  at  the 
Rectory. 

Dormer.     No. 

Kate.     Only  awkward,  clumsy  men. 

Dormer.     Two  honest  men. 

Kate,  (looking  at  his  shoulder)  That's  why  your 
sleeve  is  coming  away  from  your  coat  at  the  shoulder 
for  want  of  a  few  stitches.     Shall  I  mend  it  for  you  ? 

Dormer.  When  will  that  woman  bring  the  bas- 
ket? (rises  and  crosses  to  C.) 

Kate,  (pointing  to  table  r.)  There's  a  needle  and 
tliread,  and  a  thimble  on  my  table.  Take  off  your 
coat  and  I'll  sew  till  the  basket  comes.     Please. 

(With  a  sigh  of  despair  he  lets  her  take  off  his  coat, 
she  standing  behind  him.) 

Dormer.     That's  the  worst  of  women.     I  should 

never  have  known  the  coat  was  torn. 

* 

(Kate  taJces  the  coat  over  to  r.,  and  sits  on  garden 


22  THE  SQUIRE. 

seat    mending    coat.      Dormer    stands    with    his 
hands  in  his  pockets.) 

Kate,  (seated  r).  Would  you  rather  go  indoois, 
parson? 

Dormer.    No.    I'd  rather  stay  where  I  am. 

Kate.  Please  to  walk  up  and  down,  then,  to  avoid 
catching  cold.  (Dormer  sits  obstinately  at  table;  as 
he  does  so,  the  contents  of  one  of  his  coat  pockets 
drop  at  Kate's  feet)  Oh,  dear,  something  has  fallen 
out  of  the  pocket. 

Dormer,     (rising  quickly)   What  is  it? 

(Kate  picks  up  a  clay  pipe  much  blackened.) 

Kate.     A  clay  pipe — dirty  one. 

Dormer,     (hurrying  over  to  c.)  Is  it  broken? 

Kate,  (handing  it  to  him)  Not  a  chip,  (picking 
up  a  tobacco  pouch  which  has  also  dropped)  Would 
you  care  to  smoke? 

Dormer,  (returning  to  table)  No,  thank  you, 
ma'am. 

Kate.  Poor  father  used  to  feel  great  interest  in 
the  colouring  of  a  clay  pipe. 

Dormer,  (with  interest)  Did  he?  I  think  better 
of  him  for  it. 

Kate.  But  father  had  great  troubles,  which  made 
him  throw  his  pipes  at  the  servant,  (rises,  comes 
across  to  Dormer^  who  is  seated  l.  c.  again,  and 
offers  pipe  which  she  has  filled,  then  strikes  a  match 
which  she  has  brought  from  r.  table)  I  could  load  a 
pipe  very  nicely  once — ifather  used  to  say  I  crammed 
pretty  thoughts  into  it.  (quickly)  Of  course  I  don't 
want  you  to  say  that  if  you  don't  think  so.  (gives 
him  the  match) 

Dormer,      (lighting  pipe)   Thank  yc. 

(Kate  goes  back  to  r.  and  puts  matches  on  table. 
Chris,  enters  from  Itouse  R.  c,  carrying  a  basket 
neatly  packed  and  covered  with  a  white  napkin.) 


THE  SQUIRE.  23 

Chris,  (comes  down  steps  to  c.)  The  basket  is 
packed,  parson.  Chicken  and  jelly,  sponge  cakes, 
grapes — (seeing  Doujmeu  in  his  coat  sleeves)  Well, 
I  never ! 

Dormer.  Have  you  never  seen  a  man  with  his 
coat  off  before? 

Chris.    Never  a  clergyman,  sir! 

Kate.  Call  Gilbert,  Christie;  he's  by  the  kennel. 
(sitting  r.) 

Chris,  (goes  up  through  the  archway  and  calls) 
Gilbert ! 

Kate.  Would  the  sick  lady  like  me  to  see  her, 
parson  ? 

Dormer.    No,  she  doesn't  speak  in  your  language. 

Kate.    A  foreigner ! 

(Gil.  enters  at  haclc  from  r.,  taJces  the  basket  from 
Chris,  and  comes  down  r.  c.  to  Kate.  Chris. 
drops  down  l.) 

Gil.  I  shall  bring  the  keys  of  the  barns  and  the 
oats  house  to  you  to-night.  Squire,  also  my  books 
and  such  like.  I  should  feel  happier  if  you'd  take 
them  from  me. 

Kate.  Very  well,  Gilbert.  And  as  you  pass  the 
cottages,  tell  Gunnion,  the  shepherd,  to  come  to  me 
— he  will  do  your  duties  from  to-morrow. 

Gil.     Gunnion's  a  very  old  man. 

Kate.  I  know  that  (looking  at  him)  but  it's 
safer. 

(Gil.   turns  away  and  goes  to  Dormer.) 

Gil.       Er — is — there — any    message — with    the 
basket  ? 

Dormer.  No — I'll  follow  you  when  I've  smoked 
my  pipe. 

Gil.  (rests  his  gun  against  the  R.  side  of  the 
arch.  To  Chris.)  I'll  come  back  for  the  gun, 
Christie. 

(Chris,  goes  into  outhouse  l.) 


24  THE  SQUIRE. 

{As  Gil,  walls  through  the  archway,  Lieutenant 
Thorndyke  passes  him  with  a  careless  nod.) 

Eric,  (to  Gil.)  Hello,  Hythe!  Playing  at  Little 
Red  Eiding  Hood?  Mind  the  wolf.  (Gil.  looks 
angrily  at  him,  and  goes  off  l.  Eric  comes  down; 
he  is  a  handsome  young  fellow  with  an  indolent  man- 
ner.   Crossing  to  Kate)  How  do  you  do,  Squire? 

Kate,     (carelessly)  What  brings  you  here? 

Eric.  Strolled  over  from  barracks — doctor  says 
I  must  walk,  and  your  place  is  somewhere  to 
walk  to. 

Kate.    Do  you  know  Mr.  Dormer? 

Eric,  (turning  to  Dor.)  No,  but  my  mother 
does.  How  do  you  do?  (Eric  shakes  hands  with 
Dormer.  Dor,  draws  his  hand  away  quickly  and 
puts  his  hand  in  trousers  pocket)  Mrs.  Thorndyke 
is  a  parishioner  of  yours,  Mr.  Dormer — her  son  ought 
to  know  a  little  of  you. 

Dormer.  If  her  son  attended  his  church  regu- 
larly, he  would  know  a  little  of  me. 

Eric.  So  my  mother  says.  And  you're  not  afraid 
of  catching  cold? 

Dormer.  No,  sir!  I  am  not.  (irritably)  Have 
you  never  seen  a  man  with  his  coat  off? 

Eric.     I  beg  your  pardon — never  a  clergyman. 

(Kate  has  finished  mending  the  coat  and  has  risen. 
Eric  takes  out  his  cigar  case.) 

(offering  it  to  Dormer)  Smoke  a  cigar,  parson? 

Kate,  (catching  his  arm)  No!  (confuted)  I — 
I  like  to  see  the  parson  with  a  pipe,  (aside)  He 
mustn't  see  that !  (she  points  to  the  inside  flap  of 
the  case,  which  is  worked  with  an  inscription  in  silk, 
and  crosses  behind  Eric  to  Dormer) 

Eric,  (aside — reading  inscription)  "Kate's  love 
to  Eric."  Oh  !  by  Jove,  I  forgot !  (he  crams  cigar 
case  hurriedly  into  his  pocket;  Kate  crosses  to  Dob. 


THE  SQUIRE.  25 

L.  c.  with  coat.  Eric  saunters  over  to  garden  seat  r. 
and  sits.     Kate  assists  Dou.  to  put  on  his  coat)^ 

Eric,  {lazily)  I  really  must  give  up  waiting, 
I'm  quite  knocked  up. 

Dormer.  The  British  officer  seems  very  easily 
knocked  up. 

(Kate  gets  l.^  behind  tahle.) 

Eric.  The  British  officer,  at  whose  expense  so 
many  people  make  merry,  is  a  mild  creature  in 
"  piping  times  of  peace  " — no  offence  to  the  clay, 
parson. 

(Eric  lights  a  cigar.  Dor.  crosses  to  R.  c.  to  speah 
to  him.  Kate  looks  on  anxiously,  fearing  a 
quarrel.) 

Dormer.     And  in  times  of  war,  sir? 

Eric.  The  British  officer,  I  am  credibly  informed, 
is  a  demon  when  roused,  (putting  his  legs  up  on 
garden  seat)  I  have  never  been  roused.  You  don't 
like  my  profession,  parson? 

Dormer.     No,  sir,  I  do  not. 

Eric.  I  often  wish  my  mother  had  made  me  a 
parson. 

Dormer.     Why,  sir? 

Eric.  Because,  sir,  a  clergyman  is  the  only  man 
in  the  world  privileged  to  be  rude  on  the  subject  of 
another  person's  calling. 

(Kate  approaches  them.) 

Dormer.  A  clergyman,  sir,  is  a  professional 
truth-teller. 

Eric.  I've  known  a  common  soldier  to  be  a  prac- 
tical one. 

Dormer.  I  recognize  no  profession  which  creates 
idlers. 

Eric.  My  dear  parson,  it  is  the  most  industrious 
people  who  never  really  do  anything.     After  all,  the 


26  THE  SQUIRE. 

bees  only  make  honey — and  how  exceedingly  well 
everybody  could  get  on  without  honey. 

Dormer.  An  idler,  sir,  often  does  mischief 
against  his  will ! 

Kate,  (laying  her  hand  on  IlIs  sleeve)  Mr.  Dor- 
mer, don't. 

DoRiiER.  And  brings  evil  into  a  region  where  the 
very  purity  of  the  air  nourishes  it !  Mr.  Thorndyke, 
beware  of  idling!  Miss  Verity,  beware  of  idlers. 
Good-day,  sir.  {crosses  to  table  l.  for  hat,  and  then 
goes  up  to  archway.    Kate  gets  to  r.  of  him) 

Eric,  (closing  his  eyes  with  fatigue)  Must  you 
really  go?  (talces  out  "Sporting  Times") 

Kate.  (soothingly)  You'll  come  again,  Mr. 
Dormer — some  day,  when  Mr.  Thorndyke  isn't  here. 

Dormer,  (in  an  undertone)  If  I  come  again,  see 
that  it  be  then. 

Kate.     What  do  you  mean? 

Dormer,  (putting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder) 
Years  ago,  Kate  Verity,  I  closed  one  book  for  ever — 
it  was  called  "  Woman."  As  I  see  the  tide  ebb  and 
flow,  without  passion,  so  I  watch  a  woman  in  her 
rise  and  in  her  fall  with  a  still  heart — they  are  both 
beyond  me.  Mark  me,  I  care  no  more  for  you,  as  a 
woman,  than  for  the  beggars  in  our  High  Street; 
but,  for  the  sake  of  the  charities  which  stand  to  the 
account  of  one  Squire  Kate,  I  throw  into  the  current 
a  small  pebble. 

Kate,  (in  an  undertone)  What  is  that?  (keeps 
her  eyes  on  Eric) 

Dormer,  (pointing  in  the  direction  of  Eric) 
IJepair  those  old  gates,  and  keep  that  young  gentle- 
man on  the  other  side  of  them. 

Kate.      Suppose — I — like  the  young  gentleman? 

Dormer.  If  he  marries  in  his  mother's  lifetime 
he  is  a  pauper. 

Kate.    I  know  that. 

Dormer.    What  business  has  he  here? 

Kate.    It  kills  time. 


THE  SQUIRE.  27 

Dormer.  So  does  the  Racquet  Court  at  Pagley 
Barracks. 

Kate.  A  friend  likes  a  friend  better  than  rac- 
quets. 

Dormer.  And  a  woman  likes  a  lover  better  than 
a  friend.  There,  I  have  thrown  my  pebble — the  tide 
washes  it  away. 

(Christiana  enters  from  l.,  carrying  mug  and  a 
glass  of  milk;  she  gives  mug  to  Dormer  and  places 
glass  on  table,  waits  till  Dormer  has  finished,  and 
then  takes  mug  off  with  her.) 

Chris.     Will  you  taste  the  milk,  gentlemen? 
(Dor.  stands  l.  of  table — Chris,  goes  out  as  Gun- 

NiON"  enters  through  archway.    Gun.  is  a  very  old 

man,  a  dirty  specimen  of  the  agriculturist,  with 

straggling  grey  hair  and  an  unshaven  chin.    He 

wears  a  battered  hat,  worsted  stockings,  and  huge 

hoots.     He  speaks  a  broad  country  dialect  in  a 

wavering  treble  key.) 

Gun.     {coming  down  r.  c.)  Mornin',  Squire! 

Kate,  {sitting  r.  of  table)  Good  afternoon,  Mr. 
Gunnion. 

Gun.  {seeing  Dormer)  Lord  bless  my  eyesight, 
there's  Parson  Dormer,  a-drinkin'  a  mug  o'  milk,  as 
nat'ral  as  may  be — the  very  man  I  wanted  for  to  see. 
{seeing  Eric)  Ay,  and  there's  the  young  lieutenant 
— well,  he  be  fond  of  our  bit  of  a  place. 

Eric,  {raising  his  head)  Who's  that?  {seeing 
Gun.)  Oh,  are  you  quite  well?  {relapsing) 

Gun.  I'm  an  old  man,  I  am.  I  ain't  got  a  tooth 
in  my  yead. 

Eric,     {dreamily)  Don't  name  it. 

Kate,  {impatiently)  Have  you  heard  the  news, 
Mr.  Gunnion? 

Gun.  I  hear  as  how  Gilbert  Hythe  leaves  the 
Priors,  and  that  I'm  to  do  his  dooties. 

Kate.     How  do  you  like  the  prospect  ? 

Gun.    I'm  an  old  man,  I  am.     I  ain't  got  a  tooth 


28  THE  SQUIRE. 

in  my  yead.  But  says  Gilbert  Hythe  to  me,  "  Mr. 
Gunnion,  if  you  do  double  dooty,  you'll  get  hadykit 
renumeration." 

Kate.     Of  course  you  will,  Mr.  Gunnion. 

Gux.  To  which  I  said,  "  If  I  had  the  chance,  I'd 
die  for  the  Squire." 

Eric.     Give  him  the  chance. 

Kate.  Then  that  is  settled,  and  you  are  head 
man  here.     You  enter  on  your  new  duties  at  once. 

Gux.  Which  I  shall  do  all  the  freer  when  I've 
got  a  burden  off  ray  chest.     (Dor.  rises  as  if  to  leave) 

Kate.     A  burden? 

Gux.  Don't  you  go,  parson,  for  you're  the  man 
to  lift  it. 

Dormer.  What's  the  burden,  Gunnion  ?  (Dormer 
comes  dowii  below  chair) 

(Gun.  goes  up  through  the  archvtay  and  calls.) 

Gun.  (calli?ig)  Felicity  !  (to  Kate)  My  daugh- 
ter. Squire,  (calling  Felicity  Gumiion  ! 

(Felicity  enters  herefrom  r.) 

Kate.  Is  that  the  little  girl  who  sings  so  sweetly 
in  the  choir  ? 

Gun.  Ay,  her  singing's  sweet  enough,  but  her 
behaviour's  'orrid. — (coming  down) 

Kate.  Oh  dear  !  Oh  dear  !  Dor.  resumes  his 
seat) 

(Felicity  enters  throngh  the  archway.  Felicity 
is  a  j)i'&tty  little  girl  vrith  a  sweet  face  and  simple 
manner.  Her  dre^s  is  rustic,  hut  clean  and  tidy. 
She  comes  doion  b.  c.  a7id  makes  a  curtsey.) 

(r.  of  table)  Sit  down.  Felicity.  (Fel.  sits  on 
stone  c.) 

Dormer.     In  heaven's  name,  why  Felicity? 

Grx.  (c.)  We  called  her  Felicity,  parson,  be- 
cause she  was  our  thirteenth  hoffspring. 


THE  SQUIRE.  29 

Eric.     Good  gracious ! 

Gun.  She's  the  only  one  left— the  other  dozen 
are  all  out  in  the  world,  some  doin'  precious  well, 
Bome  doin'  precious  bad — most  of  'em  precious  bad. 

Kate.     Felicity's  a  great  consolation  to  you,  isn't 

she  ? 

Gun.  Squire,  that  gell  is  a  weight  on  my  chest. 
You  wouldn't  guess  it  to  look  at  her,  but  Felicity 
Gunnion  is  a  desolate  character. 

Kate.    A  desolate  character! 

Gun.  a  mad-brained,  rampagious,  desolate  char- 
acter. She's  had  as  fine  a  schooling  as  you,  Squire 
— pianner,  twelve  lessons — singing,  six  lessons — de- 
portment, as  they  call  it — deportment,  /  taught  her. 
Notwithstanding  the  all  o'  which,  her  writin's  des- 
pisable,  her  grammar's  shockin',  her  spellin's  beastly 
— and.  Lord,  oh.  Lord,  she's  in  love  with  a  soldier! 
(works  round  behind  Felicity  to  R.  of  her  during 
speech) 

Eric,     (shuddering)  Ugh!    What  depravity. 

Kate.  Why,  Felicity,  come  here.  (Fel.  crosses 
to  R.  of  Kate)  In  love  with  a  soldier?  (kisses  her) 
Is  that  true,  dearie? 

Fel.  It's  true,  Squire.  He's  in  the  84th  now  at 
Pagley  Barracks. 

Kate.     That's  Mr.  Thorndyke's  regiment. 

Fel.  (curtseying  to  Eric)  Then  you'd  know  him, 
sir ;  a  fine  looking  gentleman,  with  a  dark  moustache 
— Serjeant  Tom  Morris. 

Eric.  Morris!  Oh,  yes,  I  know  him.  (aside) 
Morris  !     Poor  little  soul. 

Dormer.    What  do  you  want  with  me,  Gunnion? 

Gun.  Why,  parson,  I  thought,  the  gell  being  in 
the  choir,  and  sittin'  well  forrard  in  the  gallery,  as 
how  you  might,  so  to  speak,  preach  right  full  at  her. 
The  Serjeant  goes  to  church,  too,  and  you  could  lug 
him  in  at  the  finish  with  the  sinners. 

Fel.     Oh,  don't,  parson,  don't ! 

Dormer,    Is  the  girl  happy  at  home? 


30  THE  SQUIRE. 

Fel.  No,  parson,  that's  it — I'm  not  happy  a£ 
home.      I — I — I'm  not  fond  of  dear  father. 

Gux.  Ye  hear  that?  It's  not  the  first  time  she's 
said  it.     She  said  it  o'  Friday. 

Kate,  (to  Fel.)  Hush!  You  mustn't  speak 
like  that.  I  loved  my  father  so  much,  and  his  mem- 
ory is  the  sweetest  thing  left  me. 

Fel.  Yes,  Squire,  and  I'm  sure  I  shall  love 
father's  memory.  But  he's  not  kind,  and  he's  rude 
to  those  who  are  good  to  me,  especially  the  Serjeant. 
And  I've  said  that  I'll  run  away,  and  I  mean  it, 
for  you  know  I'm  to  be  Tom  Morris's  wife,  and 
travel  with  him  to  the  beautiful  places  where  the  regi- 
ment goes. 

Kate,     {aside  to  Dor.)  What  shall  I  do,  parson? 

(Kate  and  Dormer  rise — Gunnion  pinches 
Felicity.) 

Dormer,  (aside)  She's  only  a  baby!  Keep  her 
as  long  as  you  can,  Gunnion  1 

(Gun.  and  Dor.  speak  up  stage  c,  in  archway.) 

Kate.  (Eric  rises  and  stands  r.  c.  To  Fel., 
pointing  to  door  L.)  Go  to  that  door,  child,  and  call 
"Christie."  (Fel.  crosses  to  l.  door.  Kate  goes  to 
Eric  r.  c. — to  Eric)  Do  you  know  this  Morris? 

Eric.     Yes. 

Kate.    What  kind  of  man  is  he? 

Fel.     (at  door  l.)  Christie! 

Eric.     The  biggest  scoundrel  in  the  regiment. 
(Christiana  appears  at  door  l.) 

Chris,     (to  Fel.)  Who  are  you? 

Fel.     I'm  Gunnion's  daughter. 

Chris,  (frowning)  Who  told  you  to  call  "  Chris- 
tie"? 

Eric,  (to  Kate)  Poor  little  woman — do  her  a 
good  turn,     (strolls  off  r.  1,  e.) 


THE  SQUIRE.  31 

(Kate  sits  on  stone  R.  c.) 

Kate.  Felicity  !  (Fel.  comes  to  her — Kate  passes 
across  in  front  of  her  to  R.,  Felicity  kneels.  Chris. 
watches  them  with  a  dark  look  from  door  l.  Gun. 
and  Dor.  look  on  from  up  stage)  Would  you  like  to 
be  my  little  maid,  and  brush  my  hair,  and  lace  my 
dresses  for  me? 

(Fel.  kneels  beside  Kate  on  her  r.)     And  sing  to 
me  when  I'm  lonely? 

Fel.  Oh,  Squire!  And  I  can  darn,  and  mend, 
and  mark,  and  I  can  read,  and,  Squire 

Kate.     Well  ? 

Fel.  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  all  about  Tom 
Morris  ? 

Kate,  Perhaps.  Christie  !  (gives  her  a  key  from 
chatelaine.  Chris,  l.  c.)  Felicity  Gunnion  is  com- 
ing to  live  with  us,  and  to  be  my  little  maid.  Take 
her  up  stairs,  and  give  her  the  small  room  above 
mine. 

(Felicity  rises  and  goes  r.  c.) 

Chris.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Squire,  but  I  have 
been  good  enough  to  wait  on  you  since  you  were  that 
high.     What's  wrong  with  me  now? 

Kate.  Wrong,  Christie?  Only  that  you're  an 
industrious,  hard-working  girl,  and  deserve  a  help- 
mate. 

Chris.  {tugging  at  her  apron  impetuously)  I 
don't  want  a  helpmate.  I  want  all  you,  Squire.  We 
were  children  together,  you  and  me,  mistress  and 
maid.  Don't  halve  your  heart  now.  Squire.  I  can't 
bear  it. 

Kate,  (rises)  My  heart's  large  enough,  Christie, 
for  all  folks. 

Chris,  (biting  her  lips)  I  can't  help  what  I'm 
saying.     I  won't  bear  it. 

Kate.  Hush,  hush !  Take  the  child  upstairs  and 
don't  be  silly,  (goes  up  to  Gun".  and  Dor.) 

Chris,     (crosses  to  Fel.  c. — in  an  undertone  to 


32  THE  SQUIRE. 

Fel.)  You're  the  girl  that  they  say  is  in  love  with 
a  soldier,  aren't  you? 

Fel.     Yes,  miss. 

Chris.  A  soldier!  That's  why  the  Squire  has 
gushed  over  you,  isn't  it? 

Fel.    No,  miss. 

Chris,  (contemptuously)  "  No,  miss  !  "  (shaking 
her  finger  at  Fel.)  Now  listen  to  one  word  from  me. 
You  get  wed  to  your  common  soldier  as  soon  as  you 
can  hook  him,  do  you  hear? 

Fel.     Why  ? 

Chris.     Because  as  long  as  you're  in  this  house, 
there's  mischief  and  bad  blood  in  it,  upon  my  soul 
there  is !     Come  along  and  see  your  bedroom. 
(She  seizes  Fel.  by  the  arm,  and  takes  her  up  the 

steps  into  the  house,  pushing  her    infront  of  her 

— Gun.  and  Kate  come  down.) 

Gun.  (l.  c.)  Well,  I'm  mightily  obliged  to  you. 
Squire.  I'll  bring  the  brat's  box  down  to-night,  that 
I  will. 

Kate.     (r.  c.)  Do,  Gunnion.     Are  you  thirsty? 

Gun.  Thirsty !  I'm  perishing  for  a  drop  o' 
drink. 

Kate.  Get  it  for  yourself.  (Gux.  crosses  to  l. 
door)  And,  Gunnion,  (Gun.  turns)  Milk! 

Gun.     Milk  ? 

Kate.     No  ale  till  to-morrow  night. 

Gux.  I'm  the  father  of  thirteen,  I  am.  I  ain't 
got  a  tooth  to  my  yead.  Did  I  understand  you, 
Squire,  to  say  milk  ? 

Kate.     Yes,  milk,  (joins  Dormer  in  archway) 

(Eric  saunters  on  from  r.  1  e.,  sits  on  seat  r.^  looks 
at  Kate's  hook  for  a  moment.) 

Gux.     (downcast)     Milk!     Oh! 

(He  goes  off  door  l.) 
Dormer,     (up  stage  with  Kate)   Will  you  walk 
towards  Market-Sinficld,  Mr.  Thorndyke? 
Eric,     (on  seat  r.)  Not  yet,  parson,  thanks. 


THE  SQUIRE.  33 

'    Dormer,     (turning  away)   Pah! 

Kate.  {stopping  him)  You  will  come  to  the 
Harvest  Supper,  Parson  Dormer,  won't  you? 

Dormer,     (looking  at  Eric)  No. 

Kate.  And  smoke  your  clay  pipe  like  father 
used  to? 

Dormer,  (looking  at  Kate)  Perhaps,  (he  goes 
off  through  archway,  to  l.)  :,  -  . 

(Kate  watches  him  through  archway  till  he  has  dis- 
appeared, then  she  cumes  softly  to  door  l.,  listens 
for  a  moment  and  sees  that  it  is  closed.  She  then 
crosses  to  r.  c,  gives  a  glance  at  the  house,  and 
runs  to  Eric's  side.  Eric  puts  his  arms  round 
her,  and  kisses  her  fondly.    Music  ceases.) 

Kate.     Dear  old  Eric!  (kneeling) 

Eric.     My  darling  wife  ! 

Kate.  Hush !  you  noisy  fellow.  Whisper  it, 
there's  a  good  boy,  now.  (she  lends  her  head,  he 
whispers) 

Eric,      (softly)   Wife! 

Kate,  (takes  her  wedding  ring  from  her  purse, 
and  gives  it  to  him)  Place  my  ring  upon  my  finger, 
Eric,  for  a  moment.  (He  slips  the  ring  on  her  finger 
and  kisses  her  hand.  Pressing  the  ring  to  her  lips) 
I  have  so  much  in  my  heart  to  tell  you.  Oh,  hus- 
band, storm-clouds,  storm-clouds ! 

Eric.  Let  them  break,  Kate.  Love  is  a  good 
substantial  umbrella. 

Kate.  A  gingham,  dear,  a  gingham.  They  are 
talking  in  Market-Sinfiold  about  me. 

Eric.     I  envy  them  their  topic. 

Kate.    I  can't  bear  it,  Eric.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Eric.  The  yokels  mustn't  see  me  here  so  fre- 
quently, that's  all. 

Kate,  (rises)  To  stop  their  tongues  and  break 
my  heart.  Eric,  turn  your  back  to  me,  I've  some- 
thing to  say  to  you.  (they  sit  back  to  back) 

Eric.     Fire  away,  darling. 


34  THE  SQUIRE. 

Kate.  Eric,  when  we  two  were  wed  a  year  ago 
our  compact  was  that  our  marriage  should  never 
become  known  during  your  mother's  lifetime. 

Eric.     That's  it,  wifie. 

Kate.  Because  your  pride  would  never  allow  you 
to  share  my  means. 

Eric.    Very  true,  Kate. 

Kate.  Now,  Eric,  doesn't  it  strike  you  that  you 
were  in  the  wrong? 

Eric.    Xo. 

Kate.     Because  if  a  man  will  take  from  a  woman 
something  so   precious  as   her  love,   surely  he  may 
share  with  her   anything   so  paltry   as   her   money. 
(Eric  turns  to  embrace  her) 

Eric.     My  darling. 

Kate,  {looking  round)  DoTi't, 'Eric.  I  shall  have 
to  go  indoors  if  you  behave  badly. 

Eric.  My  dear  Kate,  there  is  another  point  of 
view  which  presents  itself  to  the  prudent  husband. 

Kate.    What's  that  ? 

Eric.    How  much  does  Priors  Mesne  bring  you  in  ? 

Kate.     Oh,  dear,  I'm  afraid  to  tell  you ! 

Eric,    Ah ! 

Kate.  It's  not  my  fault.  I've  done  everything 
I  could. 

Eric.  Well,  then,  Kate,  my  pay  and  my  mother's 
allowance  tot  up  to  three  hundred  and  fifty  a  year, 
and,  my  darling,  I'm  in  debt. 

Kate,  {turning  and  seizing  Mm  hy  the  shoulder) 
Oh,  Eric,  how  can  you ! 

Eric,  {laughingly)  Don't,  dear,  I  shall  have  to 
go  home  if  you  behave  badly. 

Kate.  Why,  Eric,  some  of  my  farmhands  flour- 
ish with  families  on  eighteen  shillings  a  week. 

P]ric.  Yes,  darling,  tlierc  are  animals  who  live  on 
flesh  and  fruit,  and  there  are  animals  who  subsist 
on  nuts.     If  I  were  a  beast  I  could  not  look  at  a  nut. 

Kate.  If  you  tried  very  hard,  Eric,  do  you  think 
you  could  write? 


THE  SQUIRE.  35 

Ekic.     I've  been  taught,  dear. 

Kate.    No,  no,  I  mean  in  journals  and  magazines. 

Eric.  Never  can  write  anything  fluently  but  a 
cheque,  and  that's  not  always  presentable.  I'm  an 
ornament,  Kate,  or  nothing.  I'm  afraid  I'm  noth- 
ing— but  your  sweetheart,  (she  hows  her  head  in 
her  hands)  Why,  Kate,  this  is  one  of  your  gloomy 
days. 

Kate,  (rises  and  dries  her  eyes  ivith  her  hand- 
kerchief)  I  suppose,  Eric,  there  is  not  the  faintest 
ray  of  hope  that  your  mother  would  ever  forgive  you 
for  your  marriage. 

Eric.  Not  the  faintest.  Poor  mother,  I'm  the 
only  living  thing  belonging  to  her  upon  earth.  I 
once  persuaded  her  to  keep  rabbits,  with  a  view  to 
diverting  her  affections — it  didn't  answer.  (Kate 
walks  slowly  to  c.  hy  stone.  Eric  follows  her)  You 
are  not  yourself,  Kate;  brighten  up.  Aren't  you 
happy? 

Kate,  (gives  a  quick  look  round)  Is  any  mans 
love  so  strong  for  a  woman  that  he  would  beggar 
himself  for  her  sake? 

Eric.     Why,  Kate! 

Kate.  What  sacrifice  will  you  make  for  me? 
Tell  me  how  many  bright  golden  prospects  you  will 
blot  out  for  the  silly  woman  you  have  married. 
Quick ! 

Eric.    What  is  it  you  wush? 

Kate,  (seizing  his  hand)  Eric,  publish  our  fool- 
ish marriage  of  a  year  ago — let  it  be  known  and 
laughed  at  in  every  house  and  every  inn-yard  in  the 
country.  Do  this  for  me,  and  for  heaven's  sake,  do 
it  quickly ! 

Eric,  (holding  her  hand)  A  little  silly  gossip  has 
upset  you.     It  can't  be,  dear. 

Kate.  Then,  as  surely  as  we  stand  here — man 
and  wife — you  drive  me  from  the  place  where  I  was 
born — where  even  every  weed  growing  on  my  poor 
poverty-stricken  land  has  a  voice  for  me;  where  the 


36  THE  SQUIRE. 

women  and  children  love  and  pray  for  me;  you,  tlie 
man  who  has  brought  this  ill  upon  my  head,  drive 
me  out!  (turns  up  a  little) 

Eric.    What  do  you  mean?    Where  are  you  going? 

Kate.  To  hide,  abroad,  anywhere,  in  any  hole  and 
corner  where  no  soul  knows  me.  (comes  down  to 
front  of  stone  c.) 

Eric,  (going  to  her)  Kate,  you  have  some  secret 
— tell  me  it. 

Kate,  (with  his  hand  in  hers  she  turns  from 
him,  softly)  Can't  you  guess?  (sinJcs  on  stone) 

Eric,     (quickly)  Kate! 

Kate.  Dear,  dear  husband!  (there  is  a  pause, 
then  Eric  raises  her  and  hisses  her) 

Eric.  Kate,  my  dear,  fetch  me  pen  and  ink,  and 
some  writing  paper, 

(She  crosses  sadly  to  the  steps  then  turns  to  him, 
half  way  up  steps.) 

Kate,     (timidly)   Husband! 

Eric,     (thoughtfully)  Wife!   (foot  on  first  step) 

Kate.     Are  you  angry? 

Eric,      (taking  her  hands  in  his)   Angry!    (runs 
up  to  her)    Kate,    (drawing  his  breath)   you  are  a 
wonder!     (kiss.     She  runs  into  the  house.) 
(Eric  leans  a  moment  with  elbow  on  pillar,  descends 

steps,  rubs  his   ear,  one  foot  resting   on   bottom 

step,    ilien    whistles    "See    the    conquering    hero 

comes"  and  crosses  to  l.  table  and  takes  up  his 

mug  of  milk.) 
(raising  the  mug)  Baby's  health! 
(lie  drinks.     Kate  conies  out  of  the  house,  carrying 

a  small  desk;  she  places  it  on  table  n.j  he  crosses 

to  her.) 

Kate,  (looking  at  the  closed  desk)  There — I 
haven't  brought  the  key. 

Eric,  (searching  his  pockets)  Try  my  keys — oh! 
I  forgot — I  have  had  no  keys  for  the  last  week  or  so. 
(crosses  to  seat  R.,  pulls  table  forward) 

Kate,     (opening  the  desk)   It  isn't  locked — how 


V 


THE  SQUIRE.  37 

silly  of  me.  (they  sit  side  hy  side  with  the  desJc  open 
before  them)  What  are  you  going  to  do,  dear?  (r. 
of  Eric.) 

Eric.  Listen  to  this,  {writing)  "Mother,  I  have 
sown  my  wild  oats  in  Squire  Verity's  farm,  and  have 
reaped  a  rich  crop  of  womanly  love  and  duty." 

Kate.     Dear  old  boy!  {touches  his  R.  hand) 

Eric.  You've  made  me  make  a  blot,  {writing) 
"  I  suppose  you  will  shut  your  heart  upon  me.  So 
be  it.  But  if  Heaven  ever  gives  us  a  little  daughter, 
I  promise  you  she  shall  bear  the  name  of  my  dear 
old  mother.  Your  dutiful,  Eric."  {folds  and  ad- 
dresses the  letter) 

Kate.    What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it? 

Eric.     Leave  it  at   The   Packmores  on  my  way 
back  to  Pagley;  give  it  boldly  to  Stibbs  the  butler, 
and  run  off  as  fast  as  my  legs  can  carry  me. 
(Chris,  comes  out  of  the  house  on  to  balcony;  hear- 
ing voices  below,  she  bends  over  slyly  and  catches 

sight  of  Eric  and  Kate,  who  are  gazing  dubiously 

at  the  letter.) 

Kate,    What  a  red-letter  day  for  both  of  us,  Eric. 

Eric,  (pocketing  letter)  What  a  red  letter  day 
for  mother,  when  she  has  read  this  letter ! 

Chris,  (aside,  between  her  teeth)  And  that's  the 
woman  they  make  a  saint  of  in  Market-Sinfield. 
And  she  dares  to  turn  her  back  on  me — for  Felicity. 

Kate,     (to  Eric)  Must  you  go? 

Eric,     (talcing  out  watch)  Look. 

(Gilbert  enters  through  the  archway  from  l.,  and 
takes  up  his  gun.) 

Kate,  (to  Eric)  Don't  let  the  idlers  at  the 
White  Lion  see  you  on  the  highroad. 

Gil.  (hearing  voices,  turns — aside,  watching 
Eric)  The  man  who  has  robbed  me  of  my  hope — 
my  ambition !  If  I  stay  another  day  at  the  Priors 
I  shall  go  mad ! 

(GuNNiON    and    Izod^    with    very    uncertain   steps. 


38  THE  SQUIRE. 

and  supporting  each  other  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
stagger  out  of  the  outhouse  up  to  the  archway.) 

Chris,  (aside)  Felicity!  Not  the  name  for  this 
house !  (she  takes  the  hunch  of  Iceijs  from  her  pocket 
and  looks  at  them  exuUingly)  Ah!  I  shall  have  to 
jingle  you  yet. 

(Eric,  rises  to  part.    Chris,  draws  hack) 

Gil.  (stops  Gun.  and  Izod)  My  successor,  (tak- 
ing Gun's  hand)  God  bless  you,  man.  May  you  be 
liuppier  in  my  shoes  than  I  have  been.  (GuN  hic- 
coughs) Confound  you,  you're  not  sober. 

Gun.     Milk !  ^ 

(Music.      Curtain  falls  quickly.) 


ACT    II. 

THE   SIREN. 

Scene: — An  old-fashioned,  comfortahle,  oak-panelled 
room.  The  furniture  dark  and  cumbersome. 
Down  stage  R.,  a  door.  Up  stage,  R.,  a  capacious 
fireplace,  with  solid  mantel-piece  ahove  it.  At 
hack  R.  and  l.,  two  suhstantial  casement  windows. 
The  windows  are  in  deep  recesses,  about  two  steps 
ahove  the  stage  level.  These  recesses  are  shel- 
tered hy  heavy  draperies.  Between  the  windoivs, 
up  stage,  c,  a  massive  bureau,  opened,  with  writ- 
ing materials  upon  it.  Before  bureau  a  square 
stool.  On  L.  of  bureau  a  chair.  Up  stage  L.  a 
door.  Below  door  l.,  a  settee;  ahove  settee,  a 
hell  rope.  Before  fire  a  comfortahle  arm-chair; 
L.  of  arm-chair,  a  small  table  with  a  reading  lamp 
upon  it.  On  mantel-piece,  a  clock  to  strike;  other 
articles   of  furniture,   etc.,   to  fill   spaces.      The 


THE  SQUIRE.  39 

flooring  of  dark  oak,  square  carpeting  R.  of  stage. 
The  whole  to  produce  the  effect  of  "a  woman's 
room."  Curtains  closed.  L.  window  unfastened. 
See  written  letter  on  bureau.  All  gas  out  behind. 
Gas  one-half  up  inside.     Music  for  act  drop. 

It   is  night   time — no   moon.       The   lighting   to   be 
sombre  throughout  the  act. 

{Before  the  curtain  rises  Felicity's  voice  is  heard 
singing  off  R.) 

There's  a  jingle  to  make  a  maiden  glad 

And  flush  the  skies  above  her. 
The  clink  of  the  spurs  of  her  soldier  lad, 

"  I  am  a  faithful  lover." 

Sun  is  shining,  flow'rs  are  blooming, 
Light  and  bloom  are  not  for  aye; 

What  if  sob  and  sigh  are  looming, 
Hear  the  jingle  while  you  may! 

CURTAIN. 

There's  a  jingle  to  make  a  maiden  glad, 

etc. 

(Kate  enters  at  close  of  song — puts  keys  on  table.) 

Kate,  (leans  over  back  of  arm-chair — listening) 
Poor  little  bird,  singing  of  her  soldier  lover.  How 
am  I  to  tell  her  that  her  soldier's  heart  is  not  of  so 
bright  a  colour  as  his  jacket?  How  can  I  tell  her, 
when  there  is  another  soldier  lover  in  the  world  so 
good  and  so  true?  (sits  R.  of  table — she  opens  her 
locket;  it  contains  a  likeness  of  Eric)  Eric!  Ah! 
the  man  who  painted  this  miniature  hasn't  done  Eric 
justice;  the  face  is  too  white  and  pink,  and  the 
moustache  isn't  at  all  the  right  shade.  I  know  I 
could  catch  the  exact  tone  of  Eric's  moustache  if  I 
were  a  painter.     It's  a  kind  of  browny,  yellowy,  red- 


40  THE  SQUIRE. 

tinted,  a  sad  auburn,  with  a  sea-weedy  wash  about  it. 
Under  the  nose  it  su^rgests  one  of  our  daybreak  skies, 
and  there,  where  the  ends  droop,  a  sunset  of  Tur- 
ner's.    Dear  old  Eric!    {kisses  locket) 

{There  is  a  knock  at  the  door  l.  ;  Kate  hastily  closes 
the  locket  and  glances  at  clock.) 

It's  late!  {aloud)  Who  is  it? 

{The  door  opens,  l.,  and  Christiana  enters,  knit- 
ting stocking.) 
Chris.     Gilbert  Hythe  and  Gunnion,  with  a  box 
of  clothes  for  the  girl,  {down  hy  settee  l.) 

(Gilbert  and  Gunnion  enter — Gil.  carrying  a  very 
diminutive  wooden  trunk;  he  places  the  box  down 
L.  c.  and  doffs  his  hat.  Gil.  still  has  his  gun  with 
him;  he  goes  up  to  bureau.) 

Gun.  Good-night  to  you,  Squire.  Gilbert  Hythe's 
been  so  kind  as  to  lend  me  a  hand  with  this  blessed 
box.  {pointing  to  box)  My  child's  wardrobe,  Squire, 
scraped  together  by  the  sweat  of  my  brow. 

Kate.  Sit  down,  Gilbert.  (Gilbert  puts  his  gun 
down  l.  of  bureau  and  gets  to  R.  of  it,  standing) 
Take  Felicity's  wardrobe  upstairs  into  Felicity's 
room,  Mr.  Gunnion.  (Gun.  goes  to  take  box — Chris. 
down  L.) 

Chris.  Excuse  me,  Squire,  but  before  Gunnion 
goes  I  should  like  you  to  make  note  of  the  ale  (Gun. 
drops  box)  that's  been  drawn  from  the  new  cask. 
The  ale  was  in  my  keeping  and  it's  due  to  me  for 
you  to  know  of  the  loss. 

Gun.  {on  his  knees — to  Chris.)  Drat  you  for  a 
mischievous  hussy !  Why,  your  own  flesh  and  blood 
helped  me  to  drive  the  tap  in  with  a  mallet,  and 
drank  double  what  I  did. 

Chris.  More  shame  for  an  old  man  to  lead  a 
poor  boy  astray ! 

Kate,  (shaking  her  finger  at  Gun.)  Oh!  Mr. 
Gunnion,  how  could  you ! 


THE  SQUIRE.  41 

Gun.  (rises — gets  nearer  table)  Well,  Squire, 
it's  not  a  thing  Yva  done  afore,  and  it's  not  a  thing 
I'm  like  to  do  again. 

Kate.     Come,  come,  that's  all  right. 

Gun.  And  I've  paid  the  penalty  precious  dear. 
I've  had  my  yead  under  the  pump  from  four  o'clock 
till  past  sunset,  and  wettin'  my  yead  is  a  thing  I 
dursn't  do. 

Kate.     Oh,  dear ! 

Gun.  As  for  the  drop  o'  drink,  I  was  druv  to  it 
by  grief. 

Kate.     By  grief? 

Gun.  I'm  an  old  man,  I  am,  I  ain't  got  a  tooth 
to  my  yead.  I've  had  thirteen  children,  and  now 
the  last  of  'em's  gone.  It  ain't  for  an  old  man  to 
see  the  only  set  of  teeth  in  his  house  walk  out  of 
the  front  door  without  takin'  on  a  bit. 

(Felicity  sings  again  off  e.) 

Why,  confound  the  brat,  she's  squalling  in  the 
Squire's  place  now.     Don't  'ee  stand  it,  Squire ! 

(Felicity  comes  from  door  r.^  carrying  a  hook  and 
a  little  silken  shawl.  She  gives  hook  to  Kate, 
and  gently  places  the  shawl  on  Kate's  chair.) 

Drat  you,  what  do  you  mean  by  vocalizing  free  and 
easy  like  this  ?  You  ain't  been  called  on  for  it.  Do 
you  want  to  make  your  father  look  small? 

Fel.  (r.)  I  beg  Squire's  pardon.  If  I  didn't 
sing  I  should  cry.  That's  the  worst  of  being  too 
happy — it  makes  people  chokey.  (Kate  pats  her 
cheek — seeing  her  hox)  Oh,  father's  brought  my 
bits  o'  things,  (crosses  in  front — she  runs  over  to 
hox,  throws  open  the  lid  and  hurriedly  empties  it  of 
the  few  mean  articles  of  clothing  it  contains.  From 
the  hottom  of  the  hox  she  takes  out  a  small  gaudily 
framed  picture)  Oh,  I  am  so  glad!  There's  my 
linsey,  and  my  goloshes — my  workbox ! 


42  THi^  SQUIRE. 

Gun.  What  do  you  mean  by  hits  o'  things? 
Leave  your  wardrobe  alone. 

(Gun.  hastily  replaces  the  clothing.     Fel.  runs  over 
to  Kate  and  gives  her  the  portrait.) 

Fel.  Look,  Squire — Tom  Morris — ain't  he  hand- 
some? 

Gun.  (replacing  clothes)  Darn  these  things ! 
(mumhling)  What  d'ye  mean  by  tossing  your  things 
on  the  floor  in  that  way?  (lifting  box)  Good-night 
to  you,  Squire. 

(Christie  goes  up  to  chair  hy  l.  d.) 

I'll  leave  this  in  the  gell's  room  and  be  off. 

Kate.     Good-night,  Gunnion. 

Fel.  (goes  to  Gun.)  Gfoodi-night,  fajther.  Go 
straight  home. 

Gun.    Drat  'ee,  what  d'ye  mean  by  that! 

(Fel.  goes  round  hack  of  Kate's  chair  to  stool  R., 
and  sits  looking  at  photo.) 

Good-night  to  ye,  Gilbert  Hythe,  and  thank  'ee  for 
your  help.  Good-night,  Christie,  (shouldering  hox) 
Darn  this  wardrobe!  (turning  to  look  at  Fel.)  Ah! 
your  twelve  brothers  and  sisters  never  had  a  start 
in  the  world  like  o'  this! 

{He  goes  off — Chris,  closes  the  door  after  him,  then 
sits  on  chair  up  L.  knitting.  Gil.  comes  to  table, 
puts  hat  down.) 

Gil.  The  time's  come  for  us  to  part  company. 
I've  brought  my  books  and  odds  and  ends.  Squire, 
as  I  promised. 

Kate.  But  you  must  make  one  at  the  Harvest 
Feast,  Gilbert.  Who  is  to  play  with  the  children, 
and  to  set  tbe  old  folks  laughing,  if  you  are  missing? 

Gil.  Folks  will  have  to  laugh  at  me,  Squire,  if 
they  are  to  get  a  laugh  out  of  me,  to-morrow,  (he 
takes  a  few  rusty  keys  and  some  small  dog-eared 


THE  SQUIRE.  45 

hoohs  from  his  pocket,  and  places  them  on  table 
before  Kate)  Here  are  the  keys — the  Red  Barn,  the 
barn  below  Fenning's  field,  the  store  house.  The 
key  of  the  oats  house — (Kate  puts  key  and  money 
in  key  basket) — Gunnion's  got.  {puts  books  on  table) 
There's  my  account — it's  poor  book-keeping,  Squire, 
but  plain.     Will  you  cast  your  eye  over  it? 

Kate,     (shaking  her  head)  No! 

Gil.  Thank  you,  Squire,  (places  a  little  bag  of 
money  before  her)  John  Buckle's  rent,  and  Mrs. 
Tester's  arrears — less  some  job  wages  paid  by  me 
since  Saturday.     And  that's  all. 

Kate.     Thank  you  Gilbert. 

Gil.  And  now.  Squire,  I  can't  say  good-bye  to 
you  in  two  words.     Will  you  hear  what  I've  to  say? 

Kate.  Certainly,  Gilbert,  (gives  book  to  Feli- 
city) 

(Gil.  looks  at  Fel.  and  at  Chris,  and  leans  over 
the  back  of  Kate's  chair.) 

Gil.  (in  an  undertone  to  Kate)  Can't  it  be  be- 
tween us  two.  Squire? 

Kate.     Xo  ! 

Gil.  (aside  in  Kate's  ear)  Kate,  I'm  almost  a 
desperate  man.     Take  care  how  you  treat  me  to-night. 

Kate,  (without  moving,  aside  to  Gil.)  How 
dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that  ? 

Gil.  (aside  to  Kate)  Reason  before  you  let  your 
good  friends  slip  from  you.  I'll  give  you  a  chance 
to  consider  what  you  are  doing,  (turns  up  to  bu- 
reau— aloud)  Squire,  I  want  to  scribble  a  few  words 
to  you.  (pointing  to  bureau)  May  I  write  here? 

Kate.     If  you  please. 

(Gil.  sits  at  bureau  and  writes  quickly.)' 

(fretfully)  What  are  all  these.  Felicity? 

Fel.  (opening  book  and  reading)  "  Gilbert 
Hythe's  cures  for  cows."     Shall  I  read  'em,  Squire? 

Kate.     Oh  no. 


44  THE  SQUIRE. 

Fel.  {from  another  book)  "  Poor  mother's  re- 
ceipt for  brewing  herb  beer.  Note:  but  nobody  can 
brew  it  like  poor  mother  could." 

Kate,  {takes  the  book  from  Fel.  and  reads — 
aside  to  Fel.)  Gilbert's  mother  was  my  nurse,  {takes 
book  from  Fel. — looking  over  her  shoulder  at  Gil., 
who  is  writing)  Poor  fellow! 

Fel.  {opens  another  book)  "  An  account  of  Joe 
Skilliter's  pig,  who  could  say  "  Yes  "  and  "  No,"  by 
moving  his  ears.  Note :  When  Joe's  pig  was  killed  it 
was  tough  eating.  Another  argument  against  the 
spread  of  education." 

Gil.  {rises  and  comes  doivn  to  table.  He  places 
a  note  before  Kate)  The  few  words,  Squire,  {she 
takes  the  note)  Ah!  don't  read  'em  till  Fve  gone. 
(Kate  replaces  the  note  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders. Christie  rises — to  Fel.)  Good-bye,  little 
woman. 

Fel.  {rises  with  a  curtesy)  Good-bye  to  ye,  Mr. 
Hythe.  {sits  again) 

(Gil.  is  going.) 

Kate,     {holds  out  her  hand)  Good-night,  Gilbert. 

(Gil.  looks  at  Chris.,  who  is  busy  knitting,  then 
speaks  aside  to  Kate.) 

Gil.  {in  an  undertone)  You  haven't  read  my 
note  yet,  Squire.  (Kate  elevates  her  eyebrows  in 
surprise — Gil.  crosses  to  l,,  to  Chris.)  Good-bye, 
Chris.,  my  girl. 

Chris.  Turn  up  your  collar,  Gilbert,  it's  bitter 
cold,  {turns  it  up  for  him) 

Gil.  Y'ou're  right,  there's  a  wet  mist ;  we're  going 
to  have  a  bad  night,  take  my  word  for  it.  Good- 
night to  you. 

{He  goes  out  l.    Kate  rises  and  goes  to  window  r.) 

Kate,  {looking  out)  Good-night.  It  is  as  black 
as  ink.  {shivering)  Christie,  make  up  a  fire  here.  I 
shall  read  for  a  little  while  before  I  go  to  bed.  {puts 


fTHE  SQUIRE.  45 

money  and  key  basket  in  bureau  drawer,  and  sits  on 
stool  by  bureau) 

Chris,  (looking  at  Fel.,  who  is  reading  the  little 
books)  My  hands  are  as  white  as  hers,  but  I  suppose 
she  is  to  be  the  lady's  maid. 

Kate.  Oh,  Christie,  Christie,  after  all  these 
years!  Surely  you  are  my  friend  still,  (takes  book 
from  table) 

Chris.  I  know  I'm  your  servant ;  whether  or  not 
I'm  your  friend,  Squire,  is  another  matter;  but  I'm 
not  her  friend,  and  I  own  it. 

Kate.     You're  very  foolish,  and  very  jealous. 

Chris.  That's  it,  I'm  jealous;  I  hope  there'll 
never  be  a  worse  name  for  it. 

(She  goes  out,  door  l.     Kate  sits  on  sofa  l.) 

Kate,  (to  Fel.)  You  can  run  ofE  to  bed,  little 
maid. 

Fel.     Thank'ee,  Squire,  (puts  books  down) 
Kate.     I  shan't  want  you  any  more  to-night. 

(Fel.  curtseys — crosses  to  door  i..,  carrying  the 
soldier's  portrait.) 

Don't  forget  to  say  your  prayers. 

Fel.  (coming  down)  Squire,  (looks  round  nerv- 
ously, twitching  apron.  Kate  looks  up  from  her 
book) 

Kate,     (raising  her  head — fretfully)  What  is  it? 

Fel.  I  suppose  there's  no  harm  in  a  girl  praying 
for  her  sweetheart? 

IQ.TE.  No — if  he's  a  good  fellow  and  worthy 
of  her. 

Fel.  If  he's  a  bad  'un,  praying's  likely  to  be  of 
more  good  to  him.  (she  comes  nearer  Kate  and 
speaks  in  an  undertone)  Because,  Squire — don't  be 
vexed  at  me — because,  if  you  like,  when  I'm  praying 
for  Tom  I  might  make  a  small  mention  of — er — the 
other  gentleman,   (close  to  Kate) 

Kate.    What  other  gentleman? 


46  THE  SQUIRE. 

Fel.  (bending  forward  and  whispering)  The 
young  lieutenant,  Squire.      (Kate  rises  angrily) 

Kate.  How  dare  you !  I  am  very  angry  with 
you !  There's  not  the  slightest — Oh,  Felicity,  how 
came  you  to  think  of  such  a  thing?  (she  draws  Fel. 
to  her.     Fel.  claps  her  hands  and  laughs) 

Fel.  He's  such  a  nice  young  man,  Squire — you 
couldn't  help  it. 

Kate.  Be  quiet,  child.  We  don't  always  fall  in 
love  with  nice  young  men. 

Fel.  We  do  generally,  Squire.  May  I  just  men- 
tion him  along  with  Tom  ?     Parson  won't  know. 

Kate.  Well,  Felicity,  there's  no  harm  in  praying 
for  a  man,  even  if  one  is  not  over-fond  of  him. 

Fel.     No,  Squire. 

Kate.  So,  if  you  like,  just  a  little  for  the  young 
lieutenant ■ 

Fel.     Yes^  Squire? 

Kate.    And 

Fel.     And  who,  Squire? 

Kate.  And  the  woman  he  loves.  Good-night, 
dear,   (pats  her  cheeks — Fel.  goes  up  l.) 

(Chris,  enters  door  l.,  foUoived  by  Izod  carrying 
wood  fuel.  Chris,  takes  the  wood  from  Izod, 
and  crosses  to  fireplace  R.) 

Why,  Christie,  what  is  he  doing  here? 

Chris,  (r.  on  her  knees  before  fire)  He's  been 
sleeping  off  the  effects  of  that  wicked  old  man's 
temptation,  poor  dear,    {takes  up  bellows) 

Izod.  (c.)  I'm  better  now.  Squire,  thank  you. 
I've  been  precious  queer  all  the  afternoon. 

Kate.  (l.  c.)  Have  you,  indeed!  Well,  now 
you've  carried  up  the  wood,  you  can  be  off  home. 

(Fel.  Itas  gone  up  to  door  l.) 

Fel.  {up  L.,  turning)  Good-night,  Miss  Chris- 
tiana. 


THE  SQUIRE.  47 

Chris.  (sulkily — lighting  fire)  Good-night. 
(blowing  fire) 

(IzoD,  unnoticed  by   Kate,  gives  Fel.   a  low 
mock  bow.) 

Fel.     (timidly)   Good-night,  sir. 
IzoD.    Good-night,  Miss  Gunnion.  (makes  a  grim- 
ace at  her) 

(She  goes  out  hurriedly.) 

Chris,  (r.)  My  poor  brother  has  something  to 
say  to  you,  Squire. 

IzoD.  (c.)  It's  this,  Squire.  I  hear  that  Gilbert 
Hythe  has  had  enough  of  the  Priors,  and  that  there's 
room  for  a  new  handyman. 

Kate.  Gunnion  takes  Gilbert  Hythe's  place — you 
know  that. 

IzoD.  Yes,  Squire — but  in  consequence  of  the  old 
man's  awful  dishonesty  with  the  harvest  ale,  I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  like  to  chuck  him  over.  (Chris,  gets 
to  R.  of  Izod)  Now,  Squire,  I'm  doing  nothing  just  at 
present — a  gentleman,  so  to  speak — give  me  a  turn — 
have  me  at  your  own  price,  Squire,  and  you  get  me 
cheap. 

Kate,  (rising)  Look  here,  Master  Haggerston,  I 
don't  want  to  do  you  an  injustice,  but  I  don't  like 
you.  There's  no  room  on  my  farm  for  you.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  hear  that  you're  doing  well  elsewhere. 

(Kate  crosses  to  fireplace — the  fire  is  now  burning 
brightly.      Kate    leans   against    mantel-piece    as 

Chris,  goes  over  to  Izod.  l.) 

Izod.  (l.  c.  to  Chris.,  aside)  There,  I  told  you  so, 
she's  a  cat ! 

Chris,  (c.)  Poor  boy.  (to  Kate,  whose  back  is 
turned  to  them)  Will  you  want  me  again  to-night. 
Squire  ? 

Kate.  (r.  without  turning)  No.  Go  to  bed, 
Christie. 


48  THE  SQUIRE. 

Chris.  And  I  suppose  Izod  can  be  off  about  his 
business  ? 

Kate.     Yes. 

Chris,  (aside  to  Izod^  clutching  his  arm)  Izod, 
I'll  see  you  out  past  the  dog,  dear — then  go  and  lie 
by  the  ricks  near  the  Five  Trees,  and  watch  who 
passes  under  the  archway  to-night. 

Izod.     (in  a  whisper)  How  long  am  I  to  wait? 

Chris.  Wait  till  a  man  walks  from  the  Market- 
Sinfield  road,  and  you  won't  wait  long,  (to  Kate) 
Good-night,  Squire,  dear. 

Kate,     (turning)  Good-night,  Christie. 

(Chris,  and  Izod  go  out  l.,  closing  the  door  after 
them.    The  clock  strikes  nine.) 

(Looks  at  her  watch)  Already!  Oh,  if  that  boy 
should  not  have  passed  the  Five  Trees  before 
Eric  comes !  How  provoking !  (she  crosses  to  door 
L.,  listens,  then  turns  the  key)  There's  something 
about  to-night  that  I  don't  like.  Christie !  How 
unkind  of  Christie  to  be  so  jealous !  (still  listening, 
she  goes  to  window  l.,  pulls  hack  the  curtain  and 
opens  window)  That's  Christie  and  her  brother  walk- 
ing over  the  stones,  (looking  out)  And  there's  the 
light  in  Felicity's  room  still  burning — I  can  see  the 
shadows.  When  will  the  house  be  still  ?  Ugh !  What 
a  dark  night  for  Eric's  lonely  walk,  (the  hell  rings  in 
the  court  helow.  Katie  draws  hack)  The  bell !  So 
late — what  can  that  mean?  (she  comes  from  the 
window  and  draws  the  curtain  over  the  recess)  Some- 
thing wrong  in  the  village — someone  ill.  (she  crosses 
to  fireplace,  nervously)  Perhaps  poor  Mrs.  Tester 
has  sent  for  me  to  read  to  her,  or  old  Mr.  Parsley 
wants  me  to  witness  another  will — I've  witnessed 
eight  of  them — he  has  only  a  few  spoons  to  leave  be- 
hind him — I  can't  go  to-night.  (A  knocking  at  the 
door  L.)     Who  is  that? 

Chris,     (outside)  Christiana. 


THE  S(^UmE.  49 

(Kate  crosses  quickly  to  door  l.  and  vnlocks  ii.) 

Kate.  Christiana!  {opening  the  door)  What  is 
wrong,  Christie? 

(Christiana  enters.) 

Chris.  Parson  Dormer  has  walked  over  from 
Market-Siniield  and  must  see  you  to-night. 

Kate.     Not  to-night — not  to-night — to-morrow. 

(Dormer  enters;  he  wears  an  old  Inverness  cape  and. 
woollen  gloves.) 

Dormer.  I  suppose  a  man  ought  to  apologize  for 
calling  at  this  hour.  It's  cold  enough,  so  one  pays 
the  penalty,  (takes  off  cape,  gloves ,  and  hat,  and  puts 
them  on  settee  l.) 

Kate,  (crosses  distractedly  to  fireplace)  Come  to 
the  fire,  parson,  (he  crosses  to  Kate.)  Something 
unusual  must  have  brought  you  so  late,  (crosses  to- 
wards fire  helow  table) 

Dormer,  (pauses  below  table)  Perhaps,  (crosses 
to  fire) 

(While   he   does  so,   Chris,  up  stage  gently   looks 
through   the   curtain   into   the  window   recess.) 

Chris,  (at  l.  w. — aside)  She  has  opened  the 
window — the  saint !  Poor  Izod  won't  have  to  wait 
long,  (going  to  door  l.)  Shall  I  sit  up,  Squire? 

Kate.  No,  I  will  see  the  parson  through  the 
archway. 

(Chris,  goes  out.) 

Dormer.  Something  unusual  has  brought  me  to 
you. 

Kate.  (with  exclamation  and  quickly)  I 
feared  so. 

Dormer.  I  am  here  to  render  a  service  to  John 
Verity's  daughter. 

Kate.    Thank  you. 

Dormer,     (stands  with  his  back  to  fire — the  red 


50  THE  SQUIRE. 

glow  is  upon  them)  People  think  me  a  strange  man, 
but  I  am  strange  even  to  myself  when  I  find  my  heart 
running  away  with  me  as  it  does  to-night. 

Kate.  You  make  me  frightened  of  what  you  have 
to  say  to  me. 

Dor.MER.  It  rests  with  you  whether  I  shall  speak 
or  hold  my  tongue. 

Kate,  (moves  front  chair  r.  of  table)  No — say 
what  you  have  to  say. 

DoKMER.     \Yill  you  be  truthful  w^ith  me? 

Kate.    What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Dormer.  Strange  thing  for  a  rough  man,  such  as 
I,  to  aim  at.  I  want  to  save  you  pain,  (puts  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder) 

Kate.     Pain !     I  thought  so. 

Dormer.  If  it  had  pleased  Heaven  to  give  me  that 
one  woman  for  a  wife,  and  that  woman  had  borne 
me  a  daughter,  to  that  daughter  I  should  have  spoken 
as  I  speak  to  you  now. 

Kate,  (slowly  places  her  hand  in  his — with  pain) 
Is  anyone,  who  might  be  dear  to  me,  dead  ? 

Dormer.  No.  (Kate  sinks  hack)  Some  one  has 
returned  to  life. 

Kate.    Can  it  concern  me  ? 

Dormer.  I  hope — no !  Answer  me  one  question 
honestly — do  you  love  this  young  soldier  whom  I  saw 
here  to-day  ? 

Kate.     Suppose  I  say — "  no." 

Dormer.     Then  I  leave  you  without  another  word, 

Kate.     If  I  say — "  yes  ?  " 

Dormer.     Then  I  deliver  to  you  a  message. 

Kate.    A  message  !    From  whom  ? 

Dormer.  From  the  one  who  has  returned  to  life. 
Yes  or  No? 

Kate.     Heaven  help  me — I  love  Eric! 

"  There's  a  jingle/' 
(In  the  distance  there  is  the  faint  sound  of  Fel.'s 


THE  SQUIRE.  51 

song,  supposed  to  proceed  from  ilie  room  above 
through  the  open  window.  Dou.  crosses  at  hack 
and  listens.) 

"  Sun  is  shining," 

Dormer.  What  is  that?  {crosses  behind  table 
to  c.) 

Kate,  (ca/m/?/)  The  child  sinewing.  She  is  happy. 
Go  on — I  want  the  message.  (Dormer  takes  some 
papers  from  pocket-book) 


-"Hear  the  jingle 


Dormer.     It  is  here — in  writing,  {at  bureau) 
Kate.     Addressed — to  whom  ? 

" — while  you  may." 
Dormer.     To  the  woman  who  loves  Eric  Thorn- 
dyke. 
Kate.     I  am  she — who  sends  it  ? 

" — above  her." 

Dormer.     The  stranger  at  the  White  Lion. 
Kate,     {after  a  pause)  Who  is  the  stranger  at  the 
White  Lion? 

" lover." 

Dormer,     (l.  of  table)  Eric  Thorndyke's  wife. 

(Kate    rises   slowly,    supporting    herself   upon    the 

table;  she  and  Dor.  stand  face  to  face.    The  song 

above  ceases.) 

Kate.      Eric— Thorndyke's— wife.      Yes?     {falls 
hack  into  chair) 

Dormer.     Shall  I  read  the  message? 

Kate.    If  you  please. 


52  THE  SQUIRE. 

(Dormer  goes  up  to  the  bureau,  puts  on  his  spec- 
iacles  and  hy  the  light  of  the  lamp  arranges  his 
papers.) 

Dormer.  It  is  written  in  French.  I  have  trans- 
lated it  faithfully,  (he  places  a  paper  hefore  Kate) 
That  is  tlie  original. 

{She  takes  it  mechanically,  looJcs  at  it,  then  lets  it 
fall  upon  the  floor.  At  the  same  moment  the 
shadow  of  a  man  is  seen  at  the  window  L.,  and  the 
curtains  move  slightly.) 

Shall  I  read  the  translation  to  you?  {opens  paper 
with  one  hand;  pushes  it  off  table) 

Kate.     If  you  please,  {goes  toward  lamps) 

{The  movement  of  the  curtain  stops.     Dor.  reads 

slowly.) 

Dormer,  (reading)  "  I  was  a  singer  in  Brus- 
sels, with  a  sweet  voice.     They  called  me  La  Sirene." 

Kate,     (in  a  low  tone)  Stop — the  Siren.     Yes. 

Dormer,  (continuing)  "I  am  a  Protestant,  born 
at  Chaudefontaine,  five  miles  from  Liege.  My  father 
was  an  Englishman,  my  mother  a  Belgian  woman. 
They  died  when  I  was  a  child.^' 

Kate.    An  orphan,  like  me.  (touches  lamp  again) 

Dormer,  (continuing)  "Three  years  ago  a  stu- 
dent, Eric  Thorndyke 

(Eric  appears  at  l.  w.,  holding  bach  curtain.) 

married  me  secretly  but  legally  at  the  Protestant 
church  in  the  Rue  de  Stassart  in  Brussels."  Are 
you  listening? 

Kate.     Yes. 

Dormer,  (continuing)  "I  married  for  money 
and  station.  I  won  neither.  I  found  myself  wedded 
to  a  man  who  was  dependent  on  a  wretched  allow- 
ance, and  who  dared  not  disclose  his  marriage.  We 
were  never  happy,  and  I  grew  to  hate  him.  One 
terrible  night  he  discovered  me  in  a  gaming  house 


THE  SQUIRE.  53 

pledging  liis  name  to  pay  my  losses.  I  feared  him 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  I  fled." 

Kate.    Is  this — a  woman? 

Dormer,  {continuing)  "  The  fatigue  of  my  jour- 
ney threw  me  into  a  fever.  For  many  a  day  I  lay 
at  death's  door,  and  throughout  the  country  where 
the  Siren's  was  a  familiar  voice  I  was  thought  dead." 

Kate.    Dead.    I  see. 

Dormer,  (continuing)  "When  I  recovered,  my 
sweet  voice  and  pretty  face  had  gone  from  me  for- 
ever. I  had  nothing  but  a  mad  loathing  for  the  man 
whom  I  had  never  loved,  and  I  formed  a  plan  to 
ruin  him." 

Kate.     Oh ! 

Dormer,  (continuing)  "I  took  a  new  name  and 
fostered  the  report  of  my  death,  saying  to  myself, 
*  He  will  love  and  marry  again,  and  then  I,  the 
wreck  of  what  I  have  been,  will  come  back  to  life 
and  destroy  his  peace.' " 

(Eric  disappears.) 

Kate.     Not  a  woman — not  a  woman ! 

Dormer,  (continuing)  "But  in  time  my  heart 
softened  and  my  hate  died  away.  My  conscience 
won't  let  me  rest,  and  now,  when  remorse  has  broken 
me,  I  drag  myself  to  where  Eric  is,  to  learn  what 
evil  I  have  caused.  If  there  be  any  wrong,  it  is  I 
that  have  worked  it — not  my  deceived  husband,  whom 
I  have  not  the  courage  to  face."    Signed  "  Mathilde." 

Kate.     Is  that  all? 

Dormer,  (pocketing  paper)  That  is  all.  (Kate 
rises) 

Kate.  How  comes  this — creature  to  know  of  the 
existence  of  the  woman  who  loves  Eric  Thorndyke? 

Dormer.  She  asked  me  if  I  thought  such  a  woman 
existed.  I  replied,  yes.  "  Then,"  said  she,  "  who- 
ever this  woman  is,  and  w^herever  she  may  be,  carry 
my  warning  to  her  before  it  is  too  late."  (pvts  paper 
away  and  goes  to  sofa  l.) 


64:  THE  SQUIRE. 

(Kate  struggles  with  herself  for  a  moment;  her 
manner  becomes  completely  changed.) 

Kate.  {lighiUj)  Ah,  thank  yon.  Parson  Dormer, 
for  your  goodness,  and  for  your  cold  journey.  May 
I  give  3'Ou  some  wine? 

Dormer.  No.  {he  resumes  his  cape  and  gloves, 
then  holds  out  his  hand  to  Kate)  Good-night,  {she 
talces  his  hand)  Don't  come  down,  I  can  find  my  way 
out.  {looking  round)  I  used  to  quarrel  here  with 
your  father. 

Kate.  Good-night.  I  shall  look  for  you  to-mor- 
row at  our  harvest  supper — it  is  the  happiest  night  in 
our  year,  {screams  and  falls  hack,  Dormer  catches 
her — he  is  going — she  clutches  his  sleeve)  Parson! 
Parson!  look!  {she  points  to  the  written  confession 
which  lies  iipon  the  floor)  Don't  leave  me  alone  with 
that! 

Dormer.    That — what  ? 

Kate.  That.  Take  it  away  with  you — take  it 
away! 

(Dormer  crosses  to  table,  takes  up  paper  and  puts  it 
in  liis  pocket,  and  crosses  back  to  l.) 

{lightly  again)  Strange  creatures,  we  women,  aren't 
we — and  superstitious,  a  little.  Remember,  Parson 
dear,  we  must  keep  our  secret.  Think  of  the  scandal 
and  misery  for  poor  Eric  if  this  history  became 
known.     For  Eric's  sake,  remember. 

Dormer.  You  bear  the  young  gentleman  no 
grudge  ? 

Kate.    I — no. 

Dormer,  {looking  at  her)  Ah,  you'll  eat  a  break- 
fast to-morrow — I  shan't — and  my  wound  is  twenty 
years  old.     Good-night  to  you. 

{He  goes  out.     Kate  listens  to  his  receding  steps 

L.    D.) 

Kate,     {softly)  Good-night !  Good-night ! 

(There  is  the  sound  of  the  closing  of  a  door  in  the 


THE  SQUIRE.  55 

distance)  Gone!  (she  looks  round)  Quite  alone 
(She  shuts  the  door  softly,  then  with  uncertain 
steps  walks  to  the  settee  l.,  upon  which  she  sinks 
with  a  low  moan — starts  up  wildly)  It's  late !  Let 
me  see  !  (she  takes  her  wedding  ring  from  her  pocket) 
My  wedding  ring — I'll  hide  that;  it  is  such  a  lie  to 
carry  about  with  me.  (She  hurriedly  opens  a  small 
draiver  in  the  bureau  R.  of  it  and  brings  it  to  table) 
It  will  rest  there,  and  can  never  be  laughed  at.  (she 
takes  off  her  bracelets)  These  too — Eric's  gifts,  (she 
throws  them  into  the  open  drawer,  then  takes  the 
locket  from  her  neck)  Eric's  portrait,  (she  opens  the 
locket  and  gazes  at  the  portrait,  earnestly)  Another 
woman's  husband !  (she  rises)  Nobody  sees  me. 
(mu^ic — kisses  locket — Eric  covers  his  face  with 
his  hands.  Kate  throws  locket  into  the  drawer.  As 
she  does  so,  she  catches  sight  of  the  papers  lying 
there.  She  seizes  them)  Papers!  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten. They  would  tell  tales,  if — if  anything  bad 
happened  to  me.  (She  examines  them.  Eric  comes 
from  the  recess  as  if  about  to  speak.  Kate  opens  a 
letter)  From  Eric  when  his  regiment  was  quartered 
at — (reading) — "  My  own  Kate."  Oh!  (Eric  sin  ts 
horror-stricken,  upon  the  chair  by  the  bureau — his 
head  drops  upon  his  arm.  K^te  finds  an  old  photO' 
graph)  Ah!  a  photograph  of  the  church  where  we 
were  married.  I  remember — we  entered  at  that  door 
— not  the  one  under  the  porch — and  it  brought  us  to 
the  chancel.  Ah,  here  it  is — (reading)  "  The  Parish 
Church  of  St.  Paul,  at  Blissworth,  in  Yorkshire." 
How  pretty.  It's  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away. 
What  a  long  journey  for  such  a  marriage.  A  valen- 
tine! (she  takes  the  papers  and  kneels  at  the  fire- 
place. She  goes  down  on  her  knees  before  fire  and 
burns  the  papers,  first  kissing  them.  Eric  raises 
his  head)  A  lucky  thing  that  Christie  made  such  a 
bright  fire  for  me.  (shivering)  And  yet  it  is  cold. 
Ha !  I  suppose  heat  never  comes  from  burnt  love 


56  THE  SQUIRE. 

letters,  (to  the  letters)  Good-bye!    Good-bye!  (Eeic 
rises  and  slowly  comes  down  c.) 

Eric,     {hoarsely)  Kate! 

Kate,  {with  a  cry  she  starts  up  and  faces  him) 
Eric! 

{Music  stops.) 

Eric.  I  know  everything.  I  have  heard.  What 
have  you  to  say  to  me? 

(Kate  walks  feebly  towards  him  behind  chair.) 

Kate,  {leaning  on  chair  for  support)  Nothing 
but — leave  me.  I  am  looking  at  you  now  for  the 
last  time,  {passes  behind  table  to  c.  R.  of  bureau) 

Eric.  How  can  I  leave  you  when  we  are  bound 
by  such  ties?  My  love  chains  me  to  you — nothing 
earthly  can  break  that? 

Kate.  The  same  words  with  which  you  wooed 
that  other  woman!  {passes  to  front  of  table) 

Eric.     Kate!   {advancing) 

Kate.  Don't  touch  me  or  I  shall  drop  dead  with 
shame. 

(Eric  advances  again.) 

Don't  touch  me — I  can  bear  anything  now  but  that ! 

Eric.    You  must  hear  me!  {moves  l.  c.) 

Kate.  Hear  you !  What  can  you  tell  me  but  that 
the  pretty  music  you  have  played  in  my  ears  has  been 
but  the  dull  echo  of  your  old  love-making?  What 
can  you  tell  me  but  that  I  am  a  dishonoured  woman, 
(Eric  turns  away)  with  no  husljaud,  yet  not  a  widow 
— like  to  be  a  mother,  and  never  to  be  a  wife !  {ad- 
vances a  step) 

Eric.  You  will  listen  to  me  to-morrow?  {turns 
up  a  little) 

Kate.  To-morrow !  I  have  no  to-morrow.  I  am 
living  my  life  now.  My  life!  my  life!  oh,  what  it 
might  have  been !  {she  sinks  on  her  knees  with  her 
head  upon  the  floor  by  table.     Eric  bends  over  her) 

Eric.    Kate,  don't  shrink  from  me !    I  go  down  in 


THE  SQUIRE.  57 

the  same  wreck  with  3'ou.  You  are  a  hopeless  woman 
— I  stand  beside  you  a  hopeless  man. 

Kate,  {moaning)  You  never  told  me  of  the  past. 
Oh,  the  times  I  have  looked  in  the  glass,  with  the 
flush  on  my  cheek  that  you  have  painted  there,  and 
called  myself  Eric's  First  Sweetheart,  (moves)  If 
you  had  told  me  of  the  past ! 

Eric.  I  could  not  believe  in  its  reality.  She 
never  loved  me,  Kate — she  threw  me  away  like  an 
old  glove  or  a  broken  feather.  I  believed  her  dead. 
Ah,  Kate,  do  you  think  I  would  have  stolen  one  look 
from  you  if  I  hadn't  believed  myself  to  be  a  free 
man? 

Kate.     Oh,  Eric,  Eric  ! 

Eric.  I  had  news  from  a  distance  that  she  had 
died,  a  repentant  woman.  In  my  dreams  I  have  seen 
the  grass  and  the  flowers  springing  up  from  her 
grave. 

Kate.     Oh,  Eric,  Eric  ! 

Eric,  {moves  to  l.  c.  a  hit)  What  dreams  will 
haunt  me  this  night — the  grave  of  your  life  and 
mine?   {hand  to  head) 

Kate.  Dreams  that  picture  despair  and  parting. 
{walks  up  and  returns) 

Eric,  {advances  l.,  rousing  himself)  Tell  me 
where  to  turn,  where  to  go.  If  I  die,  what  then  ? 
If  I  live,  what  then  ?  I'll  do  anything  you  bid  me, 
{returns  to  her)  but  if  you  shrink  from  me  at  part- 
ing it  is  more  than  I  can  bear,  only  look  at  me.  One 
last  look — a  look  for  me  to  cherish.  Kate  !  {advanc- 
ing.    Moves  down,  hacJc  to  audience.) 

Kate,  {rises)  No,  no!  {he  covers  his  eyes  with 
his  hand — there  is  a  pause)  Let  me  see  your  face, 
Erie  {he  turns,  they  look  each  other  in  the  face — 
pityingly)  Trouble  makes  you  pale.  Oh,  how  sel- 
fish I  am.     Poor  Eric  ! 

Eric.  I  am  thinking  of  the  day  we  first  met ! 
How  bright !     And  now,  what  a  parting ! 

Kate.     Hush !  I  shall  go  mad  if  you  make  me 


58  THE  SQUIRE. 

think.   (The  cIocTc  chimes  again — siarUng)  Look  at 
the  hour — Good-night !  {goes  r.  a  little) 

(He  turns  to  go — stops.) 

Eric,  (holds  out  his  hand)  Touch  my  hand  but 
once. 

Kate,  (loohing  at  him)  We  are  suffering  so  much 
together,  aren't  we  ?  I  don't  know  what  I've  said  to 
you,  but  it  is  no  fault  of  yours,  dear.  We  were 
wedded  in  happiness — we  are  divorced  in  grief.  Yes 
— I  will  just  take  your  hand. 

{Without  approaching  too  nearly,  she  lays  her  hand 
in  his — their  eyes  meet.) 

Eric.    Oh,  Kate,  the  future ! 
(With  a  cry  they  go  to  each  other,  lut  as  Eric  is 

about  to  press  his  lips  to  hers,  she  recoils  with 

horror.) 

Kate.  Oh,  no !  I,  that  have  prayed  God  to  make 
me  good  all  my  life,  what  should  I  be  if  you  kissed 
me  now? 

Eric.    Oh,  Kate ! 

Kate.  Go,  go.  Eric,  you  love  me  too  well  for 
that,  don't  you? 

Eric.     Heaven  give  me  strength,  yes ! 

(The  door  l.  opens,  and  Gilbert  appears  with  a 
fixed  and  determined  loolc,  carrying  his  gun.) 

Gil.     (l.)    Mr.  Thorndyke !  (at  door) 
Eric,     (c.^  calmly)  Well,  sir.  (a  pause) 
Kate.    Why  have  you  come  back  to  the  house? 
Gil.     (puts  hat  on  chair  and  shuts  door)  I  have 
not  left  the  house.     I  come  for  an  answer  to  my 
letter. 

Kate,  (putting  her  hand  to  her  head)  Your  let- 
ter? (the  letter  lies  unopened  upon  the  table,  Kate 
sees  it)     Oh,  there  it  is,  unopened. 

(Gil.  walks  firmly  into  the  room,  and  points  towards 

the  letter.) 


THE  SQUIRE.  59 

Gil.    Read  it,  please,  (down  l.  c.) 

(Kate  opens  the  letter,  draws  her  hands  across  her 
eyes  and  reads,  sitting  r.  of  table.) 

Kate,  {reading)  "  Squire  Kate — I  will  be  satis- 
fied that  this  Thorndyke's  name  is  not  to  blacken 
yours  in  the  mouths  of  the  people  of  Market-Sinfield. 
I  shall  remain  concealed  in  this  house  till  I  can 
speak  to  you  alone.  Remember — my  love  makes  me 
desperate — one  more  harsh  word  from  you  may  bring 
mischief  to  another.    Gilbert."    Mischief  to  another? 

Eric,  (c.^  slowly  takes  the  letter  from  Kate) 
What  gives  you  a  right  to  control  this  lady  ? 

Gil.  Her  loneliness — my  love.  I  was  born  and 
reared  on  these  lands — we  plucked  wild  flowers  to- 
gether, as  children. 

Eric.  Are  you  her  guardian,  now  that  she  is  a 
woman? 

Gil.     I  am — and  of  any  weak  soul  in  peril. 

Kate,     (rises)  What  do  you  want  of  me? 

Gil.    Nothing ;  because  I  am  face  to  face  with  him. 

Eric.  Quickly,  then,  sir,  your  business  with  me? 
(throws  paper  down) 

Gil.  Mr.  Thorndyke,  you,  who  are  supposed  to 
be  a  sunshine  acquaintance  of  our  Squire's,  are  found 
here  at  dead  of  night,  in  the  house  of  one  whom  all 
honest  folks  know  as  Miss  Verity. 

Eric.    Well,  sir? 

Gil.  (pointing  to  Kate)  I  can't — I  won't  believe 
but  that  that  lady  is  good  and  pure.  You  either 
have  a  sacred  right  here,  or  you  are  an  intruder  and 
worse  than  a  thief.  You  have  to  answer  for  this 
to  me. 

Eric.  Sir,  you  are  in  the  presence  of  a  sorrow  too 
profound  to  be  disturbed  by  sharp  questions  and  hot 
answers.  In  justice  to  this  lady,  we  may  meet  to- 
morrow. 

Gil.  Not  to-morrow,  when  I  trap  my  game  to- 
night. 


60  THE  SQUIRE. 

Eric,     {indignantly)  Ah! 

Kate.  Gilbert,  you  used  to  be  so  gentle !  (Eric 
restrains  her) 

_  Gil.  Pardon  me,  Squire,  my  reckoning  is  with 
him.  Mr.  Thorndyko,  you  have  robbed  me  of  a  love 
which  I  have  laboured  for  for  years.  Ceaseless 
yearning — heart-sickness — hope  raised  and  hope  de- 
ferred— sleep  without  rest — thirst  for  which  there 
is  no  drink.  That  is  my  account.  What  is  yours? 
I  find  you  now  where  you  can  have  no  right  but  the 
sacred  one  of  husband.  (Eric  and  Kate  exchange 
a  look — he  comes  nearer  to  Eric  and  looks  in  his 
face)  Is  that  lady  your  wife? 

Eric.  You  approach  me,  sir,  with  the  light  of  a 
murderer  in  your  eyes,  and  carrying  a  weapon.  Your 
very  tone,  sir,  is  a  sacrilege.  I  tell  you,  man,  there 
is  a  grief  so  deep  that  it  is  holy  before  Heaven. 

Gil.     Is  that  lady  your  wife  ? 

Kate,     (advancing)  Gilbert,  you  shall  know ! 

Eric,  (stopping  her)  Hush!  (to  Gil.)  Do  you 
threaten  me? 

Gil.  I  am  the  protector  of  a  helpless  woman — 
I  do. 

Eric.    You  are  a  coward. 

Gil.     (stamping  his  foot)  Is  that  lady  your  wife? 

Eric.     Then,  sir,  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  yes. 

Gil.     (madly)  In  the  sight  of  the  law? 

Eric.    Xo. 

Gil.    Heaven  forgive  you — stand  back  ! 
(He  raises  his  gun.     Kate  rushes  forward  with  a 
cry,  and  catches  his  uplifted  arm.) 

Kate.  Gilbert!  Gilbert!  The  father  of  my 
child ! 

(music.) 

(She  falls  in  a  swoon  at  his  feet.  Gil.  with  a  cry 
drops  his  gun,  and  looks  down  with  horror  upon 
Kate.  Eric  kneels  beside  her,  as  the  curtain  falls 
quickly. 


THE  SQUIRE.  61 

QUICK   ACT    DROP. 

{Picture — Eric  supporting  Kate's  head,  l.  of  her, 
Gil.  looking  on  dumbfounded.) 

END   OF   ACT   II. 


ACT  III. 

GOOD-BYE. 

Scene: — The  same  as  in  Act  II.  Daylight.  The 
curtains  over  the  window  recesses  are  drawn  hack. 
The  fire  is  burning  brightly.  It  is  afternoon.  The 
sun  sets  as  the  act  advances.  All  lights  full.  Red 
lime  R.  for  fire.  Red  lime  on  slot  behind  cloth 
for  sun.  Amber  line  behind  transparent  cloth  r. 
Ditto  L.,  to  be  worked  on  at  cue.  Music  for  Act 
drop.  Clear  lamp  and  book  from  table,  lamp  from 
bureau,  and  shut  it  {bureau)  up.  L.  window  open. 
Laughter  and  voices  off  l.  as  curtain  rises,  till 
Christie  gets  to  window,  then  a  Voice. 

Voice.    There's  Christie!  {she  shuts  window)  Ah, 
we're  not  good  enough  for  Christie!  {murmurs  from 
All) 
(Christiana  enters  up  stage,  door  l.     There  is  the 

distant  sound  of  rough  laughter.     She  looks  out 

of  l.  w.) 

Chris.  What  a  lot  of  animals!  Ugh!  How 
awful  common  people  look  when  they're  clean,  {comes 
down  c.) 

(Izod's  head  appears  in  doorway  l.) 

IzoD.     Christie ! 

Chris,     {turning  sharply)  Hallo! 

IzoD.     {entering)  What's  wrong  with  the  Squire? 

Chris,     (r.  c.)   Ill,  she  says.     Hush!   {pointing^ 


62  THE  SQUIRE. 

to  door  R.)  She's  in  there.     What  do  you  want,  dear? 

IzoD.  (c.)  Coin,  {falls  hack  up  R.  c,  as  Gunnion 
enters  door  l.^  much  perturbed.  He  is  attired  in  his 
grandest,  wearing  a  large  rosette  of  coloured  ribbons) 

Gun.  Where's  Squire?  that's  what  I  want  to 
know ! 

Chris.  Hush !  she's  in  her  room.  What's  the 
matter  ? 

Gun.  (sitting  on  stool  c,  wiping  his  forehead) 
Hunpunctuality's  the  matter — a  lot  of  'em's  not  come 
yet.  The  fiddle  ain't  come;  the  Mercury  ain't  come. 
I  don't  give  'em  a  single  sentiment  till  Mercury's 
here  to  take  me  down. 

IzoD.    You  want  somebody  here  to  take  you  down. 

Gun.  Fell  the  grocer's  not  come.  If  he  'adn't 
been  harsked  he'd  have  'owled.  Now  he  have  been 
harsked,  he's  for  marching  in  late  like  a  prince,  (ris- 
ing) I'm  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,  I  am — ^take 
care  he  don't  find  hisself  heaved  out. 

Chris.  You're  quite  right,  Gunnion;  act  up  to 
your  ribbons. 

Gun.  (going  to  door  l.)  Ay,  that  I'll  do.  The 
Squire's  made  me  what  I  am  this  blessed  day.  I'm 
Squire's  representative,  I  am,  and  they'll  find  me 
darned  unpleasant,  (lie  goes  off  l.  muttering.) 
John  Parsley  ain't  come;  old  Buckle  ain't  come; 
Mouldy  Green  ain't  come. 

(IzoD  comes  down  r.  c.) 

Chris,  (r.  to  Izon)  Go  away,  Izod,  and  keep 
quiet  till  you're  wanted. 

Izod.  (down  r.  c.)  I  tell  you  I  want  coin,  (sniff- 
ing) I've  got  such  an  awful  cold  through  lying  under 
those  ricks  in  the  mist.     I  want  coin. 

Chris.     I  haven't  any. 

Izod.  Tlien  I  don't  open  my  mouth  to  the  parson 
about  what  I  saw  last  night.     I  tell  you  I  want  coin. 

Chris.    What  for? 


THE  SQUIRE.  63 

TzOD.  (reflectively)  For — for — to  buy  a  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

Cuius,  {hurriedly  takes  out  her  purse)  How 
much? 

IzoD.     {after  consideration)  Six  and  sixpence. 

Chris,     {turns)  For  a  pocket-handkerchief! 

IzoD.  I  want  rather  a  large  size  pocket-handker- 
chief. 

Chris,  {gives  him  the  money,  then  listens — look- 
ing towards  r.)   Somebody's  coming — ^go  away. 

(•IzoD  slouches  off  l.  as  Felicity  enters  door  r.) 
(c,  to  Fel.)  Now  then,  you!  {meets  Fel.  c.) 

Fel.     (r.    c,    turning)     Yes,    Miss    Christiana. 
{meeting  Chris,  c.) 
(Chris,  takes  a  letter  from  the  pocket  of  her  apron, 

and  holds  it  up,  and  then  puts  it  behind  hack.) 

Chris.  Here's  a  pretty  thing,  and  a  very  pretty 
thing;  and  who  is  the  owner  of  this  pretty  thing? 
You  shan't  have  it  till  you  guess  what  it  is. 

Fel.    a  letter  for  the  Squire  ? 

Chris.    No. 

Fel.    For  me?  {joyfully  and  eagerly) 

Chris.    Yes. 

Fel.     {eagerly)  Give  it  me,  please. 

(She  holds  out  her  hand  for  it;  Chris,  puts  the  letter 

behind  her.) 

Chris.    Who  is  it  from? 

Fel.    How  am  I  to  know  till  I  see  it? 

Chris.     Guess. 

Fel.     How  did  you  get  it?  {quickly) 

Chris.  It  was  left  here  this  morning  by  a  com- 
mon soldier. 

Fel.  {jumps  with  glee)  Oh,  it's  from  Tom !  He's 
not  common — he's  a  sergeant.  How  dare  you  keep 
my  letter  all  day? 

Chris.  {holds  up  letter — reading  the  address) 
"Miss  Felicity  Gunnion — immejit."     Immejit.     He 


64  THE  SQUIRE. 

can't  even  spell  properly — that's  a  good  match  for  a 
girl. 

Fel.  (indignantly)  I  can't  spell  at  all — it's  a  very 
good  match,  (she  snatches  the  letter  from  Chris,  and 
opens  it — aside)  Dear  Tom — (crosses  to  sofa  l.) — ■ 
that's  his  smudge — he  always  begins  with  a  smudge. 
(she  sits  on  couch  h.,  and  reads — Chris,  watches  her 
grimly — reads)  "Dear  Miss  Gunnion."  Dear  Miss 
G-unnion!  Oh,  Tom!  (she  reads  quicMy) 

Chris.  How  is  he?  What  does  he  call  you — 
Lovey  or  Popsey?  He  smokes  bad  tobacco;  I 
shouldn't  care  for  him  to  kiss  me. 

Fel.  (wiping  her  eyes  in  great  distress — crying) 
Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  (she  takes  her  ear- 
rings from  her  ears  and  throws  them  over  the  bach 
of  the  couch) 

Chris,  (l.  c.)  Hallo!  what's  wrong  with  the  ear- 
rings ? 

Fel.  He  sent  them  to  me.  You  were  quite  right, 
Miss  Christiana,  he  is  common;  he's  the  commonest, 
worst  man  in  Pagley  Barracks. 

Chris.  I'm  glad  of  it ;  it  serves  you  right.  You 
shouldn't  sneak  into  other  women's  shoes.  (She 
goes  off  L.) 

(The  harvest  people  are  heard  again  in  the  distance 
singing  a  rough  chorus.    Off  stage  l.  u.  e. — laugh.) 

All.     a  song,  a  song!    Ay,  ay,  a  song!  (rapping 
mugs  on  table) 
Loud  Voice.     Silence! 

GLEE. 

"  The  Countryman's  Song." 
(Kate  Verity  enters  towards  end  of  song  from  door 
E.,  looking  white  and  worn,  without  noticing  Fel.  ; 
she  crosses  slowly  to  window  la.,  enters  the  recess, 
opens  casement,  and  looks  out.  The  Villagers, 
who  are  supposed  to  be  enjoying  themselves  in  the 
court  below,  break  off  their  singing  as  ELiTE  ap- 
pears  and  cry  out  to  her.) 


THE  SQUIRE.  65 

Man's  Voice.     Theer's  Squire! 
All.     Hurrah ! 

Woman's  Voice.  How  are  ye,  Squire  ?  Are  you 
better,  Squire? 

(Kate  nods  and  closes  window.  Murmurs  gradually 
subsiding.  She  sits  on  the  sofa  l.  c.  Felicity 
rises  anil  crosses  to  go  off  R.  d.,  and  turns  as  Kate 
speaks.) 

Kate.    Why,  Felicity,  what  a  sad  little  face. 
(Fel.  goes  to  Kate  with  her  letter.) 

Fel.     I — I — I've  had  awful  bad  news,  Squire. 

Kate,  (sits)  Well,  sensible,  strong-minded  crea- 
tures like  you  and  me  are  not  to  be  knocked  over  by 
a  little  bad  news,  (patting  Fel.'s  head  kindly)  What 
is  it  ? 

Fel.  (kneels  at  Kate's  side  r.  of  her)  Oh,  Squire, 
dear,  listen  to  this,  (reading  the  letter)  "Dear  Miss 
Gunnion  " — fancy  that.  Squire,  from  Tom  Morris — 
"  the  news  have  come  to  Pagley  that  our  regiment 
is  the  next  for  India.  (Kate  starts)  The  orders 
are  posted  that  we  embark  in  ten  days  from  this 
present,  in  the  ^  Orion.'  " 

Kate.  Stop  !  For  India — Eric's  regiment,  (she 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands)  Oh! 

Fel.    What's  the  matter.  Squire? 

Kate.     Nothing,  dearie;  don't  mind  me.     Go  on! 

Fel.  (continuing  letter)  "1  have  been  thinking 
of  the  matter  careful,  and  have  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  climate  of  India  would  not  agree  with 
your  health,  it  being  a  swelterer.  I  therefore  let  you 
off  of  your  engagement,  but  have  spoke  to  old  Stibbs, 
the  butler  at  Mrs.  Thorndyke's,  who  has  saved  money, 
and  wants  for  to  marry  again,  and  I  have  mentioned 
you  as  a  steady  hard-working  lass  who  would  make 
any  man's  home  a  palace.  Send  me  back  the  silver 
earrings  you  had  from  me,  as  they  will  only  remind 


66  THE  SQUIRE. 

you  of  him  you  have  lost.  So,  no  more  from  your 
heart-broken  Tom."     Oh,  Squire! 

Kate,  {kisses  Fel.  on  the  forehead)  Thank 
Heaven,  on  your  knees,  little  woman,  that  you  can 
never  be  that  man's  wife. 

Fel.  {rises  and  dries  her  eyes,  and  crosses  to  R. 
c.)  I — I'm  sure  I'm  very  glad  of  it.  {standing  c.) 
Oh,  Squire,  them  soldiers  are  a  bad,  deceiving  lot. 
The  King  has  their  chests  padded,  and  so  girls  think 
they've  got  big  hearts,  but  it's  all  wadding.  Squire, 
it's  all  wadding,     {goes  up  E.) 

(GuNNioN  enters  door  l.) 

Gun.     I'm  darned  if  this  ain't  a'most  too  much 
for   an   old   man.    {calling   off,   at   door)    Come   on 
with  ye ! 
(RoBJOHNS^  Junior  enters,  attired  in  his  best  and 

carrying  his  fiddle  in  a  green  baize  bag;  he  has  a 

white  hat  in  his  hand.) 

I've  got  him  at  last ;  blessed  if  he  ain't  been  dressing 
hisself  since  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  {up  by  L.  d.) 

EoB.  (l.  c,  advancing)  Well,  Squire,  I'm  truly 
sorry  that  I'm  two  hours  and  a  yarf  behind  time,  and 
I  hope  it'll  make  no  difference. 

Kate,     {sitting  l.  c.)  No,  no. 

EoB.  But,  fact  is.  Squire,  father's  a-lingerin'  in 
a  most  aggravatin'  way,  and  rare  work  I  had  to  get 
the  yat  from  him. 

Kate,     {absently)  The  hat? 

Rob.  {holding  out  the  hat)  Father's  white  'at, 
Squire — he's  full  o'  y earthly  pride  and  wouldn't  give 
it  up. 

(Rob.  goes  to  l.  w.  and  takes  fiddle  out  of  hag,  as 
Fell,  the  grocer,  a  stout  man,  tvith  itis  Wife  and 
a  little  Guild  enter — types  of  village  trades- 
people.) 

Gun.  (c.)  Squire,  this  is  Mr.  Fell,  the  proprietor 
of  the  grocer's  shop  down  by  Thong  Lane. 


THE  SQUIRE.  67 

Fell.  (l.  c,  advancing)  I  beg  pardon,  not  a 
grocer's  shop — stores! 

Gun.  Maybe  it's  grocer's  shop,  maybe  it's  stores, 
but  if  the  Fells  imagine  that  droppin'  in  late  is 
Market-Sinfield  manners,  they're  darned  well  mis- 
took. Dooks  may  do  it,  but  not  grocers  nor  even 
stores. 

Kate,     {on  sofa — reproachfully)  Gunnion! 

Gun.  Well,  I'm  the  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
I  am. 

(Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fell  argue  out  the  subject  with  Gun. 
up  c.  Kate  leckons  the  little  Child,  who  runs  to 
her.) 

Kate,     {rises  and  kneels  with  Child  c.)    Come 
here.  Toddle — what's  your  little  name  ? 
Child.    Stores. 

(Gunnion  places  Mrs.  Fell  on  stool  up  c.  Fell 
takes  chair  from  l.  of  bureau  and  sits  beside  her.) 

Kate.  Stores !  No,  no,  no,  that's  not  your  name. 
{crosses  to  E.  with  Child) 

(Felicity  places  stool  beside  chair  R.^  R.  of  it,  and 
Child  sits.  Fel.  behind  her.  The  Shabby  Per- 
son^ representative  of  the  "  Pagley  Mercury,"  ap- 
pears,  supported  on  either  side  by  two  country 
people,  men) 

Gun.  Squire,  I'm  mortally  grieved  to  say  this  'ere 
is  Mercury.  He's  a  little  tired;  we  found  him  in  the 
parlour  of  the  White  Lion.    Come  on,  drat  'ee ! 

{Enter  Dame,  her  husband  and  son  with  clarionet, 
Kate  meets  Dame.) 

Kate.    Ah,  Dame,  glad  to  see  you ! 

Dame.    Long  life  to  you,  Squire. 

Kate,     {pointing  to  chair  l.)  Sit  down.  Dame. 

{Croiud  follow,  all  bob  and  curtsey  and  say) 
All.    Mornin',  Squire !    How  are  you,  Squire  ?. 


68  THE  SQUIRE. 

(Group  formed  l.  of  stage,  Gunnion  arranging 
them.  Kate  sits  R.  The  S.  P.  is  placed  upon  the 
couch.  .The  Villagers  and  Farm  Servants, 
Men,  Women,  and  Children  troop  in  and  cluster 
in  doorway  up  stage  l.  At  the  same  time  the 
Parson,  breaking  his  way  through  them,  enters  and 
comes  to  Kate. 

Kate,  with  the  little  child,  rises  to  receive  him.) 

Kate,     {gratefully)  Ah,  Parson,  how  kind  of  you. 

Dormer.     You — you  look  ill. 

Kate.    No,  no,  not  now. 

Dormer.     Whose  child  is  this? 

Kate.    Mr.  Fell's,  the  grocer's  little  girl. 

Dormer.     Bah !  the  world's  full  of  girls. 

Gun.  jSTow  then,  Joe  Parsley,  leave  go  of  Jane 
Boadsley's  waist !  You  don't  see  me  lowering  myself 
with  a  woman  !  Squire,  the  Harvest  Song !  Go  on, 
drat  'ee! 

(A  simple  rustic  chorus  is  sung  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  EoB.^s  fiddle.) 

Chorus  of  Villagers. 
A  Woman. 

What  have  you  got  for  me,  Good-man? 
All  Women. 

Say — a — a — a — ay  ! 
Men. 

Laces  and  rings  and  womanly  things. 
Upon  our  harvest  day — a — a — a — ay ! 

A  Woman,  (holding  up  a  hahy) 

What's  for  your  haby  boy.  Good-man? 
All  Women. 

Say — a — a — a — ay  ! 
Men. 

Bawbles  and  milk  and  a  robe  of  silk, 
Upon  our  harvest  day — a — a — a — ay  I 
A  Woman,     (pointing  to  the  Squire) 


THE  SQUIRE.  |»9 

What  have  you  got  for  She,  Good-man? 
All  Women,     (pointing  to  the  Squire) 

Say — a — a — a — ay  ! 
Men.     {stoopirig  as  if  to  carry  a  burden) 
Why,  sheaf  and  stack,  and  a  weary  back, 
Upon  our  harvest  day — a — a — a — ay  I 

CHORUS. 

Everybody. 

Bread  in  the  oven,  milk  in  the  can, 
And  wood  for  the  winter  fire ! 

Fire-ire-ire ! 
A  broken  back  for  the  husbandman. 
And  golden  corn  for  the  Squire ! 

Squire-ire-ire ! 

(At  end  of  Chorus  a  young  girl  comes  from  the 
crowd  and  presents  Kate  with  a  basket  of  fruit 
and  flowers.     Kate  kisses  her — the  girl  returns.) 

Gun.  Squire  Verity,  it  was  my  desire  for  to  have 
been  took  down  in  my  words  by  Mercury.  Mercury, 
however,  is  non  composite,  as  the  saying  goes. 

Villagers.    More  shame  for  him  ! 

Gun.  But  what  I  have  to  tell  you  is  this  here. 
Squire ;  the  men  wish  you  a  better  harvest  next  har- 
vest than  this  harvest — as  much  'ops  and  more  wheat 
and  barley,  not  to  say  boats. 

Villagers.    Hear,  hear! 

Gun,  The  women  wish  you  a  good  husband,  who'll 
love  you  and  protect  you  and  put  a  load  o'  money 
into  the  land,  and  have  all  the  cottages  well  white- 
washed. 

Villagers.    Hear !    Hear ! 

Gun.  And  lastly — if  the  parson  will  allow  me  that 
word — lastly,  we  all  wish  you  may  live  amongst  us 
long  and  happy  until  you're  an  octo — an  octo — an 
octagon.     I'm  sorry  Mercury  can't  take  me  down. 

Villagers.  Bravo,  Gunnion  !  Well  spoken,  very 
good! 


^0  THE  SQUIRE. 

(Kate  rising— with  her  hand  on  the  little  Child's 
Aeacf— Felicity  puts  stool  back,  and  stands  by 
Kate,  taking  her  hand  and  kissing  it  at  end  of 
speech.) 

Kate.  My  dear  friends,  you  are  kinder  to  me 
than  I  deserve,  which  makes  me  very  pained  at  what 
I  have  to  tell  you.  You  and  I,  who  have  been  to- 
gether for  so  many  years,  and  who  have  loved  one 
another  so  much,  have  to  part  company. 

Villagers,     {murmur)  What! 

GuN",  Part  company !  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you're  going  to  put  more  machinery  in  the  land, 
Squire  ? 

Kate.  I  mean  that  I  am  going  away  from  Market- 
Sinfield,  perhaps  never  to  come  back. 

Villagers.  Oh,  what  will  become  of  us?  (a  mur- 
mur from  the  Women) 

Kate.  The  lands  will  be  worked  by  a  richer 
farmer,  and  you  and  your  homes  will  be  the  gainers. 

Villagers.  No,  that  they  won't!  {they  shake 
their  heads) 

Kate.     But  what  I  ask  of  you,  is — don't  forget 

me 

{Sob  from  one  of  the  Women.) 

— and  to  make  sure  of  that,  please  christen  some  of 

your  children  by  my  name.     Kate  is  a  pretty  name, 

and  when  your  babies  grow  up,  tell  them  why  they 

bear  it.     {she  kisses  the  Child  and  sends  it  back  to 

the  group,  then  sits  and  cries) 

Gun.     {sympathetically)  Well,  all  I've  got  to  say 

is.  Squire,  we're  well  nigh  heart  broke,   {turning  to 

the  group)  My  eye— up'll  go  the  rents. 
Dormer,     {coming  down)     Be  off,  all  of  you — 

don't  stand  and  gape  at  a  woman  who  is  crying! 

(Felicity  exits  r,  d.  Mercury  assisted  off.  Fel. 
places  his  chair  back  as  before.  Dormer  goes  off 
through  the  group;  the  rest  sorrowfully  disperse, 
looking  over  their  shoulders  at  Kate.     As  they 


&■ 


THE  SQUIRE.  ^-^  71 

leave,  Gil.  comes  through  them,  and  is  left  on  the 

stage.     He  softly  closes  the  door  and  crosses  to 

Kate  r.  c. — Voices  till  Gilbert  speaks.) 

Gil.     (quietly)  Squire! 

Kate,  (looking  up  quickly)  Oh,  Gilbert!  (she 
gives  him  her  hand  across  the  table) 

Gil.  (l.  of  table)  I've  been  watching  for  a  chance 
of  a  word  with  you.  Ah,  Squire,  how  good  of  you 
even  to  look  at  me ! 

Kate.     Don't  speak  so,  Gilbert. 

Gil.  When  you  think  of  me  as  I  was  !  Ah,  Squire, 
I  had  the  devil  in  me  last  night,  and  I  would  have 
shot  the  young  lieutenant  like  a  dog  in  this  very  room, 
but  for — I  can't  say  it. 

Kate.     But  for  what? 

Gil.  But  for  the  sudden  thought  that  you  were 
as  guilty  a  woman  as  he  was  a  man. 

Kate.     You  didn't  know,  Gilbert. 

Gil.  Thank  you,  Squire,  I  didn't  know,  (advances 
to  her,  looking  round  to  be  sure  they  are  alone)  Well, 
Squire,  I've  seen  Mr.  Thorndyke  this  very  morning. 

Kate,     (eagerly)  Yes? 

Gil.    And  I'm  the  bearer  of  a  message  from  him. 

Kate,  (rising)  A  message — what  is  it?  Quick? 
(checking  herself)  Oh,  no,  it  doesn't  matter — don't 
tell  me. 

Gil.  Ah,  Squire,  you  can't  have  heard  the  news. 
The  regiment's  going  away  to  a  strange  country — 
it's  his  duty,  and  he  goes  too. 

K^iTE.  (faltering)  Yes,  I  know — going  away — 
soon. 

Gil.  Well,  Squire,  I  parted  from  him  less  than  an 
hour  ago,  and  he  grips  my  hand  and  says  to  me, 
"  Gilbert,  you're  the  only  soul  that  know's  our  secret, 
and  you're  my  friend  and  hers,  and  we  trust  you." 
—God  bless  him  for  that.  Squire !  "  Aad,  Gilbert," 
says  he,  "  I'm  packed  off  to  the  Rajkote  station  in 
India,  where  many  a  gravestone  marks  the  end  of  a 
short  life.    It's  a  good  country  for  broken  heartSj 


72  THE  SQUIRE. 

Gilbert.  And,  Gilbert,"  says  he,  "  I  want  to  wish 
her  Si  good-bye.  She  won't  refuse  me  that,  Gilbert, 
she  can't  refuse  me  that"  (Kate  goes  to  fire)  Ah, 
Squire,  I've  got  a  man's  heart,  though  it's  rough,  and 
all  my  poor  disappointments  and  troubles  are  nothing 
to  such  a  sorrow  as  this.  And  I'm  here  for  your 
answer.  Squire — waiting. 

Kate.  I  can't  see  him.  I  must  not  see  him.  I 
am  weak — ill.     My  answer — no  ! 

Gil.  I  won't  take  it,  Squire.  My  heart  goes  out 
to  him.     I  can't  bear  that  answer  back. 

Kate.  Then  tell  him  that  you  found  me  well, 
cheerful,  with  a  smile,  among  my  people.  Say  it  is 
better  as  it  is;  that  we  must  learn  to  forget — say 
anything,   (she  sinks  helplessly  in  chair) 

Gil.     Oh,  Squire!   (approaches  her) 

Kate.  Do  as  I  bid  you — keep  him  away  from  me 
— that's  all. 

Gil.  (walks  sadly  over  to  l.  c.^  then  turns) 
Nothing  more. 

Kate.     Nothing  more. 

(The  door  l.  opens,  and  Chris,  enters  with  Izod 

at  her  heels.) 

Chris,  (to  Gil.)  Gilbert,  the  children  are  crying 
out  for  you  to  tell  them  your  fairy  stories,  and  sing 
your  songs  to  them. 

Gil.     I'm  coming,  (crosses  to  l.) 
(Chris,  and  Izod.  go  up  stage  R.    As  Gil.  is  leaving, 
Kate  rises  and  calls  him.) 

Kate.    Gilbert!  (crosses  to  Gilbert) 

Gil.     (turning)  Squire! 

Kate,  (she  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm — aside)  Gil- 
bert— I — I  have  thought  about  it.  Tell  Mr.  Thorn- 
dyke  that  the  poor  folks  look  for  a  glimpse  of  him 
to-day.  That  he  shouldn't  leave  England  without 
seeing  the  last  of  Verity's  farm.  Gilbert,  say  that 
we  need  not  meet,  (quickly)  Go — tell  him  to  come 
tome! 


THE  SQUIRE.  73 

(Gil,  hurries  off;  Kate  sits  on  couch  L.     Chris. 
stands  before  her.    Izod.  conies  down  c.) 

Chris.  You're  goin,fi:  to  turn  your  back  on  Market- 
Sinfield,  Squire.  What's  to  become  of  me !  {crosses 
her  arms) 

Kate.  The  poor  servant's  fortune  always  falls 
with  the  house,  Christie.  You're  young  and  strong, 
and  better  off  than  your  mistress. 

Chris,  {uncrosses  and  uses  her  arms)  Ah,  I  see; 
it's  the  baby  face  and  baby  tongue  of  old  Gunnion's 
daughter  that  pleases  you  now  !  And  why  ?  Because 
the  child  can  talk  to  you  of  the  barracks  at  Pagley, 
and  the  jests  they  make,  and  the  stories  they  tell 
about  young  Thorndyke's  lady-love ! 

Kate,  {raising  her  head)  You  are  an  insolent 
woman ! 

Chris.  Insolent  I  may  be,  but  I'm  not  worse! 
{goes  a  little  to  r.) 

Kate.     What  do  you  mean? 

Chris.  That  your  precious  love-secret  is  known 
to  my  brother  and  me.  That  we  can  spell  the  name 
of  the  man  who  is  the  most  welcome  guest  here,  in 
broad  daylight  when  doors  are  open,  and  in  the  dead 
of  night  when  doors  are  locked ! 

Kate.  {rising  and  seizing  Christie's  wrist) 
Christie ! 

Chris,  {throwing  her  off — placing  her  hands  he- 
hind  her  defiantly)  Don't  you  touch  me,  because  I'm 
your  servant  no  longer !  don't  touch  me,  because 
you're  not  fit  to  lay  your  hand  upon  a  decent  woman ! 

Kate.  All  the  ills  of  the  world  at  one  poor 
woman's  door!   {sits  on  sofa)  What  is  it  you  want? 

Izod.     (aside /o  Chris.)  Coin! 

Chris.  This :  I've  got  gipsy  blood  in  me,  and  that 
means  "  all  or  none."  Will  you  promise  to  turn  old 
Gunnion's  child  away,  never  to  have  her  near  you 
again  ? 

Kate.    If  I  refuse,  what  will  you  do? 


74:  THE  SQUIRE. 

Chrts.  Tell  the  parson  that  there's  a  lady  in 
Market-Sinfield  who  needs  as  much  praying  for  as 
she  can  get  from  him  on  Sundays — tell  him  what 
Izod  saw  last  night  and  what  I  heard — give  him  a 
new  text  to  preach  to  the  poor  folks  who  call  you 
their  saint. 

Kate.  You'll  do  this?  (rises)  Then  I  promise  to 
be  a  friend  to  little  Felicity  as  long  as  she  loves  me 
and  clings  to  me.     Say  the  worst  you  can. 

(Izod  goes  up  towards  l.  d.  and  remains.  Chris. 
makes  a  movement  as  if  going.  Kate  stops  her.) 
Kate,  (rises)  Christiana!  (Chris,  stands 
before  Kate  with  her  hands  behind  her  bacJc)  I'll 
give  you  this  thought  to  help  you.  I  stand  here,  the 
last  of  my  name,  in  our  old  house,  wretched  and  in 
trouble.  I'm  not  the  first  Verity  that  has  come  to 
grief,  but  I  shall  be  the  first  at  whose  name  there's 
a  hush  and  a  whisper.  And  this  will  be  to  your 
credit — to  the  credit  of  one  who  has  fed  and  slept 
under  my  roof,  and  who  has  touched  my  lips  with 
hers.  (She  comes  to  Chris,  and  lays  her  hand  upon 
her  shoulder)  Christie,  if  you  ever  marry  and  have 
children  that  cry  to  be  lulled  to  sleep,  don't  sing 
this  story  to  them  lest  they  should  raise  their  little 
hands  against  their  mother.  Kemember  that,  (sits 
again) 

Eric  Thorndyke  enters  quicJcIy,  door  l.,  and  stands 
facing  Kate.  Christiana  and  Izod  look  at  each 
other  significantly ;  there  is  a  pause — Christie 
hacks  a  little  so  that  Eric  passes  in  front  of  her, 
Izod  passes  behind  and  gets  on  steps.) 

Chris,  (with  a  curtsey  to  Eric)  Your  servant. 
Lieutenant.  You  haven't  forgotten  the  Harvest 
Feast,  sir. 

(He  makes  no  answer.    Chris,  and  Izod  cross  quietly 

to  door  L.) 

(In  Izod's  ear)     Come  to  the  parson — now. 


&ll^ 


THE  SQUIRE.  75 


(They  go  out,  Kate  and  Eric  are  alone — they  look 
at  each  other.) 

Eric,     (c.)     Thank  you  for  seeing  me. 

Kate.     You  ought  to  hate  me  for  it.     (on  sofa) 

Eric.  I  should  have  delayed  this  till  you  were 
stronger,  but  I  was  in  dread  that  you  would  go 
without  a  word. 

Kate.  I  leave  Market-Sinfield  to-morrow.  I 
should  not  have  said  good-bye  to  you.  You  look  tired 
and  worn  out. 

(Eric  advances  to  sit  beside  her,  she  checks  him  and 
points  to  stool  c.) 

Sit  down — there.  (he  sits  wearily)  Has  your 
mother  written? 

Eric,  (with  a  short  hitter  laugh  produces  a  let- 
ter from  his  pocket-hook)  (c.)  Oh,  yes;  here  is  my 
conge.  The  gates  of  The  Packmores  are  shut  and 
locked.  Stibbs,  the  butler,  has  orders  to  clear  out 
everything  that  spells  the  name  of  Eric.  Poor 
mother ! 

Kate.  Ah,  that  needn't  be  now ;  you  must  tell  her 
we  have  quarrelled,  that  I  have  jilted  you,  or  you  me 
— anything  for  a  home. 

Eric,  (rises)  Home,  Kate!  Home!  That's  all 
over,     (comes  down  c.) 

Kate.     Hush  !  hush  ! 

Eric.  I've  been  with  Sylvester,  our  lawyer,  this 
morning;  he  is  going  to  raise  money  on  the  reversion 
of  my  aunt  Tylcote's  little  place,  which  must  come 
to  me.  It  is  the  merest  trifle,  but  it  is  something. 
And  I've  written  to  the  agents  in  town  about  setting 
aside  half  my  pay. 

Kate,  (looking  up)  \Yhat  is  the  meaning  of 
that  ? 

Eric.  For  you,  Kate.  I've  no  thought  but  for 
you,  dear,  and  the  little  heart  which  is  to  beat  against 
yours. 


76  THE  SQUIRE. 

Kate,  (starts  up — rises)  Oh,  Eric,  unless  you 
wish  to  make  me  mad,  you  mustn't  be  kind  to  me,  I 
can't  bear  it.  (advancing  c.  firmly)  Why,  Eric, 
do  you  think  I'd  let  you  pinch  and  struggle  for  me ! 
(they  meet  c.) 

Eric,  (hotly)  Why,  Kate,  you  wouldn't  live  in 
a  fashion  that  doesn't  become  my  wife! 

(He  stops  short — they  look  at  each  other,  then  turn 

away.) 

Kate,  (sits  again  on  sofa — under  her  breath) 
Oh,  Eric,  what  made  you  say  that? 

Eric.  It  slipped  from  me — I  didn't  meant  to  say 
it.  Oh,  it  comes  so  naturally,  (goes  up  to  l.  of  L. 
window) 

Kate.  It  doesn't  matter ;  it's  all  through  wrangl- 
ing about  miserable  money,  (goes  to  r.  of  l.  window) 

(The  lights  are  getting  duller,  the  faint  glow  of  the 
setting  sun  is  seen  outside  the  windows.) 

Look !  there's  the  sun  goin?  down ;  we  mustn't  stay 
here  longer.  (She  comes  closer  to  him,  looking  up 
into  his  face.  They  stand  with  their  hands  behind 
them.)     There's  time  only  for  one  last  word. 

Euic.     I'm  listening,     (coming  down  r.) 

Kate.  (tearfully)  It's  this.  You  may — of 
course — write  to  me — to  the  Post  Office  at  Bale,  for 
the  present.  Not  to  make  it  a  tax  upon  you.  But 
when  you've  nothing  better  or  more  cheerful  to  do — 
oh,  write  to  me  then ! 

Eric.  Oh,  Kate!  (Tie  moves  down  r.  toivards 
her,  she  goes  hack  a  pace  to  avoid  him) 

Kate,  (leans  against  chair)  No,  no,  I'm  not 
going  to  cry.  (smiling)  A  man  is  always  so  fright- 
ened that  a  woman  is  going  to  cry.  And,  Eric, 
promise  me,  dear,  never  to  gamble,  nor  bet — only  very 
little.     Will  you  promise? 

Eric.     Yes,  I  promise  ! 

Kate,     (both  centre)     Don't  listen  to  stories  at 


THE  SQUIRE.  ^7 

the  mess  table  about  officers'  wives — don't  sit  up  too 
late — don't  drink  too  much  wine. 

Eric.  There's  no  chance  of  that,  (walks  toward 
settee  L.) 

Kate.  Ah,  dear,  you  haven't  been  in  trouble  till 
now.  And  lastly,  always  go  to  church  and  be  a  good 
fellow. 

Eric.  Which  means,  Kate — try  to  do  everything 
I  should  have  done  in  the  happy  life  we  might  have 
lived  together,     (sits,  Eric  on  settee,  Kate  c.) 

Kate.  Yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  And  when  you 
find  yourself  getting  very  miserable,  which  means, 
getting  very  weak,  I  want  you  to  say  to  yourself — 
"Eric,  old  fellow,  pull  up — you've  got  a  true  love 
somewhere — you  don't  know  where  she  is — but  you'd 
better  do  everything  she  bids  you,  for  she's  a  per- 
fect tyrant"     (she  breaks  down  and  stands  C.) 

Eric,  (puts  hat  on  chair)  That's  your  last  word, 
Kate — this  is  mine. 

(MUSIC.) 

When  I  get  away  from  India,  on  leave,  I  shan't  know 
where  to  bend  my  steps  unless  it's  to  the  country  that 
holds  my  girl. 

Kate.     No,  no.     (moves  to  table) 

(Rises  and  crosses,  both  near  table.) 

Eric.  Ah,  listen,  (he  holds  out  his  right  hand 
and  traces  upon  it,  as  if  it  were  a  map,  with  his  left) 
Suppose  my  hand's  a  map — there  are  lines  enough 
on  it — and  that  you're  dwelling  in  some  pretty  for- 
eign place,  say  here.  Well,  then,  when  you're  here, 
I  could  while  away  the  time  there,  and  if  you're 
weary  of  that  one  spot  and  run  off  to  there,  I  could 
pack  up  my  bag  and  smoke  my  cigar  here.  You  see, 
darling?  Never  too  near  you,  where  I've  no  right, 
but  always  about  thirty  or  forty  miles  away.  So 
that  in  the  twilights,  which  are  long  and  saddening  in 
foreign  places,  you  might  sit  and  say  to  yourself,  "  1 


78  THE  SQUIRE. 

don't  want  to  meet  Erie  face  to  face,  because  he'd 
remind  me  of  old  times  and  old  troubles,  but  he's  not 
more  than  forty  miles  away,  and  he's  thinking  of  his 
dear  love  at  this  very  moment." 

(MUSIC  dianges.) 

Kate,  (drawing  her  hand  across  her  eyes)  You 
mustn't  speak  to  me  any  more. 

(Eric  takes  his  hat.    K!ate  goes  down  to  k.  c.) 

Eric.  Good-bye.  (looking  in  her  face,  trying  to 
smile)  Why,  I  do  believe  I  shall  begin  to  write  you 
my  Indian  budget  this  very  evening. 

Kate,  (struggling  with  her  tears)  It  doesn't 
matter  how  long  the  letter  is.  Good-bye.  (she  holds 
out  her  hand,  he  walks  down  slowly  and  takes  her 
hand.  There  is  a  pause — softly)  Xou  are  going 
away — I  can't  help  it.  /*     ft  

(MUSIC  ceases.)  5NL 

(She  lays  her  head  quietly  upon  his  breast,  he  folds 
his  arms  round  her.  As  they  part  Dormer  enters 
door  L.,  with  a  stern  face.) 

Eric.     Mr.  Dormer ! 

Dormer,  (l.)  We  meet,  as  we  have  met  before, 
sir,  in  hot  blood.  Mr.  Thorndyke,  you  have  no  secret 
that  is  not  shared  by  me,  and  yet  you  are  here,  sir! 
For  shame ! 

Eric,  (c.)  Let  me  remind  you,  Mr.  Dormer, 
that  one  of  the  few  advantages  of  being  neither  a 
pauper  nor  a  felon  is  freedom  of  action. 

Dormer.  Mr.  Thorndyke,  I  am  without  the 
smooth  tongue  of  my  class,  I  find  you  in  a  woman's 
house,  where  you  are  a  guest  by  night  as  well  as  by 
day.  I  bid  you  begone.  You  are  a  soldier  lack- 
ing chivalry — a  man  who  makes  war  upon  weakness 
— you  are  a  coward  !     (step) 

Eric.  A  coward,  Mr.  Dormer,  is  one  who,  under 
the  cover  of  his  age  and  profession,  uses  language 


THE  SQUIRE.  79 

for  which  a  younger  and  a  braver  man  would  be 
chastised,     {goes  up  stage  toivard  fire-place) 

Kate,  (crosses  to  Dokmek  k.)  Parson,  you  don't 
guess  the  truth.  If  you  knew !  (crosses  to  c.  Eric 
drops  R.) 

Dormer.  I'll  know  no  more.  Miss  Verity,  I  am 
the  pastor  of  a  flock  of  poor,  simple  people,  who 
regard  your  words  as  precepts,  and  your  actions  as 
examples.  I  will  spare  you  the  loss  of  their  good 
will,  but  I  demand,  so  long  as  you  remain  in  this 
parish,  that  Mr.  Thorndyke  be  excluded  from  your 
house. 

(Kate  goes  up  to  bureau.) 

Eric.  Oh,  sir,  I  can  relieve  your  mind  on  that 
point;  a  moment  later  you  would  have  found  me 
gone.  Good-bye,  Miss  Verity,  I  shall  inform  you  of 
my  arrival  abroad  if  you  will  let  me. 

Kate.  (takes  his  hand,  and  looTcs  firmly  at 
Dormer)  Stop  !  Parson  Dormer,  this  house  is  mine; 
while  my  heart  beats,  for  good  or  for  evil,  neither 
you  nor  your  bishop  could  shut  my  doors  upon  the 
man  I  love.     That  is  your  answer. 

Dormer.  And  to  think  that  yesterday  your  voice 
liad  a  charm  and  a  melody  for  me.  It  serves  me 
rightly  for  forgetting  my  old  lesson.  Wliat  a  fool ! 
What  a  fool!  (he  goes  deliberately  to  bell  rope  l., 
and  pulls  it) 

Kate.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

Dormer.     My  duty. 

Kate.     What  is  that? 

Dormer.     To  open  the  eyes  of  these  blind  people. 

Kate.     Open  their  eyes  to  what? 

Dormer.     Your  guilt. 

(Eric  gives  an  indignant  cry.    Kate  goes  to 
Dormer.) 

Kate.  Guilt !  It's  not  true !  Parson,  I  am 
unhappy,  with  a  life  wasted,  with  hope  crushed  out 


80  THE  SQUIRE. 

of  me,  but  not  guilty  yet.  I  am  this  man's  wife  in 
the  sight  of  heaven,  married  a  year  ago  at  God's  altar, 
prayed  over  and  blessed  by  a  priest  of  your  church, 
to  be  divorced  by  the  cruel  snare  which  made  you  its 
mouthpiece.  Parson,  I  am  desperate  and  weak,  but 
not  guilty  yet ! 

Dormer.  Kate !  Kate !  look  in  my  eyes — is  this 
the  truth  ? 

Kate,  (clinging  to  Eric)  As  true  as  that  at 
this  moment,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  am  in 
danger ! 

(Eric  leads  her  to  chair  r.,  she  sits.  The  village 
crowd,  headed  by  Christiana,  Izod,  Gdxxion,  and 
Felicity,  appear  at  door  l.  Christiana  triuni' 
phant.    Dormer  faces  the  crowd.) 

Dormer.  Friends,  Market-Sinfield  people,  (lay- 
ing his  hand  on  Chris's,  arm)  you've  been  told  by 
this  good  creature  here  that  I've  a  few  words  to  speak 
to  you.  Verv  well,  this  is  my  text.  Beware  of  Tale 
Bearers  !  They  destroy  the  simplicity  of  such  natures 
as  yours ;  they  feed  the  bitterness  of  such  a  nature  as 
mine.  I  entreat  you,  firstly,  to  believe  nothing  ill 
against  those  you  hate,  and  you'll  grow  to  love  them; 
secondly,  to  believe  nothing  ill  against  those  you  love, 
and  you'll  love  them  doubly.  Lastly,  whatever  you 
think,  whatever  you  do,  to  pity  this  poor  lady  (point- 
ing to  Kate)  who  is  in  some  trouble  at  leaving  the 
place  where  she  was  born.     Go!     (turns  down  c.) 

(Chris,  snatches  her  arm  from  Dormer  with  a  hitter 
look.  The  crowd  makes  a  movement  to  go,  when 
Gil  forces  his  way  through  and  comes  to  Dor.  l. 
of  him.) 

Gil.  (aside  to  Dormer)  Parson,  you're  wanted 
up  yonder ! 

Dormer.     What  is  it  ? 

(Gil.  whispers  a  few  words  in  Dormer's  ear,  and 


THE  SQUIRE.  81 

falls  back.     Dormer  raises  his  hand  to  stop  the 
crowd.) 

Dormer,  {emphatically)  Stay!  before  you  ^o 
I'll  tell  you  why  the  Squire  leaves  Market-Sinfield. 
(goes  a  little  to  r.  c.) 

Kate,  (rises  and  goes  up  behind  table — to 
Dormer)     Parson !    No !     (goes  down  on  Dormer's 

L.) 

Dormer,  (not  heeding  Kate)  She  is  going  to  be 
the  wife  of  that  young  man  there,  our  neighbor 
Thorndyke. 

Crowd.     What !  Married  ! 

Dormer.  She  is  going  to  be  married  to  him  in 
your  presence,  in  my  church,  and  by  me,  before  an- 
other Sunday  passes. 

(A  cry  from  the  Crowd.) 

But  neighbor  Thorndyke  is  off  to  India  for  some 
years  with  his  good  wife,  on  duty  to  his  Queen,  and 
that's  why  you  lose  your  Squire.  Men  and  women, 
on  your  knees  to-night,  say  God  bless  Squire  Kate 
and  her  husband,  and  bring  them  back  to  us  to 
Market-Sinfield ! 

(Another  cry  from  the  Crowd.) 

Crowd.     Hurrah ! 

Kate.  (l.  of  Dormer — grasping  Dormer's  arm, 
aside  to  him)  Parson,  the  woman  at  the  "White 
Lion !  " 

Dormer.  Hush!  (to  Eric)  Mr.  Thorndyke, 
you're  a  free  man,  sir,  your  wife  is  dead ! 

(MUSICS 

(As  the  curtain  falls,  Kate  kneels.  Dormer  puis 
his  hand  on  her  head.) 

THE  end. 


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